The Case of the Baker Street Flat Mate
by bemj11
Summary: Following Inspector Lestrade as he investigates Doctor John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' new flat-mate. A series of encounters between the Inspector and the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1

I stopped short, blinking in bewilderment at the sight of the man sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire. The first thought that occurred to me as I stood there was that the man before me certainly was _not_ Sherlock Holmes.

_This_ man was tan, gaunt, and worn looking. He also, judging by the way he sat blinking at me, had just been awakened by my arrival.

He stood up rather slowly and somewhat stiffly, I noticed, looking more alert as awareness crept into his eyes. He offered me a polite smile as his hand went to the arm of his chair, as if to steady himself.

"May I help you?" He asked a trifle uncertainly, albeit good-naturedly for someone whose sleep had just been interrupted.

"Um," I faltered, "I am looking for Mr. Holmes. I was told this was his new address…"

"It is." The man reassured me with another smile. He seemed a pleasant fellow, from what I had witnessed so far. "However, Holmes went out this morning, and has not made it back yet."

I stifled a groan. There was no knowing when the fellow might return, then. It could be anywhere from five minutes to two days before he got back.

"Never mind." I said to the man. "I'll call back tomorrow." _And hope he was actually in,_ I added silently. "Sorry to trouble you."

Another smile. "Not at all, my good man" He returned easily. "Can I tell Holmes you called?"

I was never given the opportunity to reply, for at that moment somewhere below us a door was suddenly flung open with great vehemence, causing a loud crash. Sherlock Holmes had returned.

The man before me turned white as a sheet and let out a cry of alarm as he jumped at the sudden noise. I was about to assure him that he had nothing more to fear than the imminent presence of the world's most annoying amateur detective (which perhaps _was_ some cause for alarm after all), but the sitting room door suddenly opened in much the same manner as the previous had and Sherlock Holmes himself entered the room. His entrance, surprisingly enough, seemed to reassure the startled man before me, for it was accompanied by a small sigh of relief the same.

If Sherlock noticed the effect his entrance had had on the other man, he didn't care. The amateur detective barely seemed to register his presence at all, in fact, as he darted over to a table absolutely covered in chemistry apparatus, and I myself was completely ignored.

"I say, Holmes?" The man called out after a moment, his voice still a bit shaky, and nearly flinched as the former spun around rather abruptly and impatiently to face him.

"What is it, Doctor?" The detective demanded.

The doctor seemed to be recovering from his fright, for he didn't seem bothered by Sherlock's terse reply. He merely inclined his head in my direction. "You have a visitor." The doctor informed him. Sherlock turned his head sharply to look at me.

"Oh." The detective said then, stepping away from the table. "I see."

"I suppose you would like to make use of the sitting room." The doctor offered, already beginning to retreat from the room.

"If it would not be too much an inconvenience, thank you, Doctor." Sherlock replied absently, waving me to the chair this doctor had so recently abandoned.

"Not at all." The doctor replied, pausing at the door. "Good evening, Mister-" He floundered for a name as we both realized I had never given it.

"Lestrade." Sherlock cut in. "Lestrade, my new flat-mate, Doctor John Watson." I nodded as the doctor excused himself. The door shut, and a few seconds later I heard the slow, uneven tread of footsteps on the stairs.

Flat-mate. Sherlock Holmes. I wondered how long this arrangement would last.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Gregson stared at me, eyes wide in disbelief, and I knew I had made the right choice. Irritating the man may be, but one thing we _do_ have in common is our opinion of one Sherlock Holmes.

"A flat-mate?" He demanded, right before bursting into a fit of laughter. I waited, watching in amusement, for him to regain some control of himself. He was red-faced from the effort when he finally managed to gasp, "You're joking, right?"

I shook my head. "I saw the man with my own eyes." I told him. "Doctor John Watson, a rather thin, ill-looking fellow. Nearly had a heart attack when Mr. Holmes showed up, slamming doors and such."

"But the man hates people!" Gregson objected, still reluctant to accept the admittedly absurd idea. To be honest, I wasn't sure I would have believed it myself had I not seen it with my own eyes.

I shrugged. "He was probably rather desperate for better quarters." I suggested.

"He couldn't find worse." Gregson commented idly. It was true; Sherlock's previous dwelling had been a nightmare. "Still, even if he _can_ tolerate another person for the sake of the rooms, there's no way your doctor will put up with _him_ for long."

This time I laughed with the other Inspector. "I just wonder that no one warned the poor chap." I said. "I mean, you'd think whoever introduced the two to each other would have had the heart to let the doctor know what he was getting into. I feel sorry for the man, to tell you the truth."

Still chuckling, Gregson shook his head in agreement.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

It was pouring down the rain when Sherlock Holmes showed up at the Yard. The man arrived in a fit of temper, grumbling and swearing under his breath, his mood an excellent reflection of the nasty weather we'd been having this past week.

Gregson greeted him smugly and with a quip about how his new flat-mate the doctor was doing. Sherlock nearly snarled in reply.

"The man is absolutely insufferable!" He declared with righteous indignation. "He's done nothing but sigh, and moan, and groan, and growl all week when he thinks no one's around to hear, and said not two words to even the landlady when he thinks anyone is! He just sits in his armchair and stares moodily into the fire."

I fought to hide a smirk, for it sounded as if the doctor were still more pleasant than Sherlock in one of _his_ moods, and wondered how long the amateur detective would put up with this Doctor Watson.

"Oh, it's probably just the weather getting to him." Gregson suggested brightly. "It has been rather horrid lately."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock replied with some annoyance. His mind had already banished his flat-mate and was now focusing on the reason for his presence. "Now where is Lestrade?"

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks to KCS for granting me permission to make use of a line from one of her stories, Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

#03 – Young

The bets among the Inspectors, regarding how long it would take for the detective to drive his new fellow-lodger either out of the house or out of his mind, ranged from one to ten weeks – but none were more surprised than Holmes himself when they all lost.

I suggest, if you enjoy Sherlock Holmes and have not read any of this author's work, that you quit wasting your time with mine and head over there.

* * *

"How long have they been sharing the flat?" Gregson asked.

"Roughly two weeks." I replied.

"It has to end soon, then." Gregson said decidedly. "I'd give it four more weeks, at the most."

"Ten." I countered. "The doctor's a rather patient one, from what I've seen."

"Two." Suggested Hopkins. "It'll be _Holmes_ that throws the _doctor_ out."

"One." Wilkins offered. "I doubt the weather will clear up enough before then." I'd forgotten that Wilkins had been out to the flat two days ago, and had met the doctor then.

"You think the weather will make a difference?" Jones asked curiously. I myself wasn't sure what difference it would make.

"Doctor's a veteran." Wilkins supplied, as if surprised we didn't already know. "Injured in the war. He won't be _able_ to move out until the weather's cleared up."

Well, that at least explained the bad mood Sherlock had claimed the doctor had been in lately. Old injuries had been plaguing him, most likely.

"So you think it'll be the doctor that leaves, then?" I asked. Wilkins nodded.

"He'll get tired of the messes, or the noise, or of Mr. Holmes' general unpleasantness." Gregson suggested.

Jones shook his head. "Holmes will throw him out. You know how the fellow is. He'll throw the doctor out for trying to hold a conversation or breathing too loudly, or some nonsense like that."

"The doctor keeps to himself," a new voice cut in dryly, "and doesn't plague me with mundane attempts at pointless conversation." Sherlock grinned smugly as we all started, embarrassed at being caught discussing the man and his flat-mate. After a second of silence that was, for our part, awkward (though the man himself only seemed amused), he continued. "I very much doubt that the drawbacks to having the doctor as a flat-mate will outweigh the benefits any time soon."

As Sherlock led Gregson off on some business or other, it was Hopkins who commented that the doctor would certainly tire of the amateur detective soon.

I couldn't help but agree as I headed back to my office to get some work done.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: It has been called to my attention that Lestrade refers to Holmes by his first name in this story, which is, of course, very familiar. I wondered about that, when I realized it was true. I came to the conclusion that one: Lestrade thinks of him as Sherlock, but calls him Mr. Holmes, and two: in the beginning it was a differentiation between a narrative by Watson and a narrative by Lestrade. Then I wondered why Lestrade would think of the detective as Sherlock and call him Holmes. So asked him.

He laughed at me, and said it was complicated. When pressed, he explained that when they first met, the detective was introduced as Sherlock Holmes, and for years Lestrade thought of him as such, with his first and last name, but over the years, as he became more familiar with Mr. Holmes, he found himself thinking of the detective as merely Sherlock, as both a name and a description. I wasn't sure this cleared up anything, but thanked him for his time anyway.

* * *

Five days later the weather had not let up, and the doctor had not yet had enough of Sherlock Holmes. As I was shown into the sitting room, I found the man huddled in the same armchair he had inhabited at the beginning of my last visit. He looked up at me with a slight flash of irritation that disappeared almost immediately, perhaps as he realized that I was not his flat-mate.

"Good heavens, you're positively soaked!" He then exclaimed. Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, had insisted on taking my coat and hat in the hall, but the weather had been bad enough that my coat had not been terribly effective in keeping me either warm or dry.

The doctor stood, and was not entirely successful in hiding the pain that it caused him to do so. Wilkins had said the doctor had been injured in the war, I recalled. No wonder he had been insufferable, to use Sherlock's description. This abysmal weather would have been causing him considerable discomfort.

But the doctor's expression quickly changed to one of concern as he ushered me into the other armchair and insisted on throwing his blanket over me. "Holmes isn't back yet, I'm afraid." He said apologetically as he busied himself with the tea set the landlady must have recently brought in. "He said he had a few errands to run, but planned to be back for tea. Milk? Sugar?" He was offering me a cup, and I was too cold to even consider declining. It was a terrible day for being out of doors.

The doctor handed me a steaming cup and returned to his own seat with a groan that he did not quite succeed in stifling, and reached to pour out his own cup of tea. He nearly dropped it as Sherlock himself blew in, slamming doors behind him as was his habit.

The doctor was not quite as alarmed this time, and quickly recovered himself and was up out of his chair again with another grimace. "Holmes, Mr. Lestrade is here to see you." He said as he offered the amateur detective his chair in front of the fire.

Sherlock Holmes sank into the chair without argument, and was too chilled to refuse when the doctor offered him the tea he had just poured for himself only seconds ago.

I wasn't surprised when the detective failed to thank the doctor for either the chair or the tea, nor was I surprised when the doctor then limped out of the room without a word.

I _was_ surprised when the doctor returned a minute or two later with another blanket and tossed it over Sherlock's legs and the former did no more than raise an eyebrow at the other man.

"Good evening, Holmes." The doctor excused himself. "Mr. Lestrade."

"Good evening, Doctor Watson." I called after him. Sherlock merely downed his tea and actually huddled under the blanket the doctor had left him.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

"He _what_?" I demanded, unable to believe I'd actually heard Gregson correctly.

"Well, it's no more fantastic than your story about the doctor getting him a blanket." The man retorted, but obligingly repeated himself. "He shushed me. As in, 'Shush, Inspector, you'll disturb the doctor.'"

"Sherlock Holmes?" I insisted. "_He_ was concerned about someone else being too loud and bothering the doctor?" I wondered if this were some sort of joke.

"Well, I asked him something to that effect, you know, and he muttered something about him finally getting some sleep." Gregson continued, looking as if he couldn't believe what he had heard.

I could hardly believe it myself. "You mean to tell me he was _worried_ about the man's _sleeping habits_?" I demanded.

Gregson nodded. "The doctor was asleep in the sitting room. We discussed the case in Mr. Holmes' bedroom, him perched on the edge of his bed."

Of all the unbelievable rubbish…but Gregson was completely serious, if a trifle confused. I rubbed my forehead absently, as if that might make this whole peculiar situation with Sherlock make just a little more sense.

It did not, of course.

"Still think it'll be four weeks?" I finally asked with a grin as the Inspector prepared to leave. He stopped in the doorway at that, and regarded me solemnly.

"I'm not sure _what_ to think." He finally admitted.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: This scene takes place during A Study In Scarlet, the beginning of the case, from Lestrade's point of view, of course.

* * *

"He's here." Gregson announced.

I rolled my eyes. "Great. _You_ called him, _you_ can greet him." Gregson shot me a look, but didn't argue. He knew I had a point.

I went back to studying the body, hideous as it was. The expression of horror on its face sent a shiver down my spine. Odd, though, that there should be no sign of a wound on the body.

I recognized the sound of Gregson's footsteps in the hall, followed by those of Sherlock Holmes, and stepped back to let the amateur detective see what he could make of it.

The look on Gregson's face was one of pure, confused astonishment as they entered the room. A second later I identified the cause.

Looking rather healthier, and far more cheerful, for that matter, than he had the last time I had seen him, Doctor Watson entered the room just a few steps behind Gregson and Sherlock, his eyes lit up with interest and excitement, excitement that faded as he caught sight of the corpse before him.

His interest, however, deepened, and Gregson raised an eyebrow as the doctor stopped half a step behind Sherlock, who had knelt by the body, and somehow managed not to get too close to the detective or the body, or block the light, or breathe too loudly, or any number of other things that generally led to an explosion from the detective when he was working, though how he managed to inspect the body himself without distracting Sherlock I had no idea.

For inspect it he did, and with apparent thoroughness in spite of the scrutiny he also appeared to be giving the amateur detective himself.

Gregson caught my eye again, and silently formed the question, "What's he doing here?" I could only shrug in reply. I was as puzzled as he was.

Sherlock Holmes was the last person on earth that would ever willingly invite the companionship of another, and certainly would never even consider for a moment dragging someone along with him on a case.

Yet here the doctor was, with Sherlock's permission at the very least, but likely with an invitation from the man as well.

Now why on earth would someone like Sherlock Holmes invite someone, anyone, along to a crime scene?

For that matter, why would anyone actually _accept_ said offer?

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Sorry. I posted the same chapter twice _again_! I fixed it, though, so here is the right chapter 8.

* * *

"Well, he managed to stay out of Mr. Holmes' way." Gregson suggested, now back at the office.

"Because he was used to doing so in their flat, perhaps?" Jones speculated.

"But that still doesn't explain what he was doing there in the first place." I pointed out.

"Taking notes." Gregson replied promptly with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Har, har." I retorted. "Very funny." I waited a moment for Jones and Hopkins to calm down before asking. "So you've met him yourself now. What do you think of the man?"

"He's very polite. A gentleman." Gregson replied immediately. "He limps a bit when he walks. Seems to be a rather easygoing fellow, and seems to know his business as a doctor, if the way he was mentally dissecting that corpse was any indication. Now that I've met him, I'd say he may very well last longer than I would have thought anyone could in close proximity to Holmes."

"Well, the fact that Mr. Holmes brought him along would seem proof of that." I commented. "But that itself is an oddity. If Mr. Holmes actually allowed him to come along, he can't be too averse to the doctor's company, not that it makes any sense either way."

Gregson shrugged. "What confuses me is that the doctor actually came along. Surely he doesn't actually _enjoy_ Holmes' company?" He asked uncertainly, as if the notion were absolutely preposterous.

Which, of course, it was. No man in his right mind could possibly enjoy the company, or even mere presence, of Sherlock Holmes for long.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company do not belong to me.


	9. Chapter 9

"Lestrade! Inspector!" The sharp, if somewhat unsteady, shout cut through the darkness, and I forced my eyes open and immediately began to wonder why I was staring up into the pale face of Inspector Gregson.

I also wondered why he suddenly looked relieved. I opened my mouth to ask, but stopped as blinding pain shot through me.

We were on a case, I remembered. We had been told in no uncertain terms to drop it if we wanted to live. Of course, we had refused to give in.

Gregson was talking to me, I noted dimly. I was trying to remember how I had gotten where I currently was-

Where was I, anyway? I seemed to be lying on a sidewalk, too close to the street for comfort. It was dark, and wet.

We had been walking down the street at three in the morning. Gregson, Sherlock- Where was Holmes? Was he even alive? We had been attacked, somehow; I couldn't remember exactly what had happened. But Sherlock, what had happened to him?

I tried to move, and couldn't stop the cry of pain that escaped my lips. Gregson stopped rambling, and looked down at me in alarm.

"Best to stay still, for now, Inspector." He said, eyes wide with concern. "Mr. Holmes went to get the doctor."

_The_ doctor? Would Doctor Watson even be up at this hour? Would he even come? True, he had tagged along on a few of Sherlock's cases since that first (not this one, thankfully), but surely there were better options.

We weren't that far from Baker Street, I realized. I also realized I was cold. And wet. And thinking was making my head throb even worse.

I forced myself to look up at Gregson. He was still far too pale, and his left arm-the one that wasn't on my shoulder- hung limply. Had he been injured too?

Following my gaze, the Inspector forced a smile. "I'm fine, except for my shoulder." He explained. "You caught the worst of it. Mr. Holmes may have injured his wrist." He supplied. "They should be back soon. Holmes said you have to stay awake until then."

How bad was it? I couldn't sit up, could barely move without the pain making me nauseous. My head hurt, my ribs ached, actually, most of my body hurt. And Gregson was scared; there was no denying that.

Suddenly the doctor was kneeling over me, feeling for a pulse, muttering that he wished he had some light. "No, you did the right thing in not moving him, Holmes." He threw the assurance over his shoulder as he began poking and prodding to find the extent of my injuries.

I clenched my teeth and tried not to utter a sound as he worked, instead trying to distract myself by studying the doctor himself.

He looked wide awake, as if he hadn't been sleeping when Sherlock called him, but also didn't have the haggard appearance of one who has been unable to sleep that night. He was fully and immaculately dressed however, furthering the impression that he had already been awake when Sherlock had arrived.

He moved swiftly, purposefully, and his entire countenance was both deadly serious and yet calmly reassuring at the same time. I wondered distractedly how he managed that.

Finally he stood, and turned to Sherlock. "He needs to get out of the cold and wet. We should be able to move him now, at least as far as the flat. I can do more for him there."

Sherlock nodded wearily in agreement. The doctor directed him to kneel beside my head as he and Gregson took their positions by my feet.

I never knew if they managed to pick me up or not, for with that first beginning movement the pain overwhelmed me and everything went black.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	10. Chapter 10

I woke up in a bed. It was rather warm and comfortable, and I decided I didn't feel like moving just yet. It wouldn't hurt to sleep a little longer.

A muffled hiss of pain jolted me wide awake. My eyes flew back open and I started to sit up, trying to discover who was hurt. I immediately regretted the movement.

"Inspector Lestrade!" Doctor Watson was by me in a flash, easing me back down in the bed. "It would not be wise to sit up just yet, Inspector." He informed me, his voice low and soothing. "You've taken a bit of a beating, you know. Lay still while I finish with Gregson here, if you please."

Satisfied that I would stay down, the doctor turned back to the other Inspector. Gregson was looking a little less pale than he had earlier, which was good to know, but had done something to his shoulder. Thankfully, he was in the doctor's hands now.

I closed my eyes in relief, just for a minute mind you, and only because I was waiting for the doctor to finish with Gregson.

* * *

Disclaiemer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: Last chapter was short, so I thought I'd give you a double helping to make up for it.

* * *

I must have dozed off, for when I next opened my eyes the doctor was arguing with Sherlock Holmes rather vehemently, but also very quietly. The doctor insisted in hushed whispers that he _was_ going to see Holmes' wrist and that he wasn't going to hear anymore nonsense about it, and for heaven's sake keep it down and don't wake the Inspector.

I blinked in genuine astonishment when Sherlock Holmes actually gave in. The doctor made short work of examining his wrist, pronounced that it was badly sprained, and insisted on wrapping it up.

"There. Now I don't have to worry about you. Get some rest, Holmes." The doctor admonished gently.

"Rest?" Sherlock hissed. "How am I supposed to rest when I have one Inspector unconscious in my bed and another on the couch?"

"Inspector Gregson can use mine for the night." The doctor offered, unperturbed by the outburst. "You can sleep on the couch; you have before. Can you go usher him off to bed, or shall I?"

There was a moment's silence, and the doctor spoke again. "Keep an eye on Inspector Lestrade. I'll be right back."

I heard him limp from the room and into the sitting room. By straining I could just hear him gently rousing Gregson. "Come on, old chap. You need some rest, and the couch is not the most comfortable place for it."

I couldn't make out the muttered question from the Inspector, but did catch a small chuckle from the doctor as he insisted that Gregson stay here for the night, and that it would be no inconvenience at all to have him."

I barely made out the sound of two bodies making their way to his room before I drifted off again.

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

I felt better, or at least, less awful when I woke up again.

The room was empty, I noticed; the doctor must have gone to bed sometime in the night. I frowned a second later at that as I recalled that Gregson had been given his bed and Sherlock was supposed to be on the couch. That didn't leave the doctor anywhere to sleep.

I sat up, slowly, and tried to take stock of the damage done last night. My ribs were wrapped up rather tightly, and my left hand and right arm had been bandaged. I also, it seemed, sported numerous bruises and a few scrapes that the doctor had not bothered to bandage.

I fought back a wave of dizziness as I tried to stand, and barely managed not to fall back into the bed. When the room came back into focus and I was still on my feet, I began to make my way painfully to the door.

I had to stop to catch my breath after I got the door open, and took the opportunity to listen for the sound of anyone else who might be up. It was quiet, far too quiet for my nerves to handle at the moment.

I had to stop again in the doorway of the sitting room. I looked around as I panted; there was the detective on the couch, actually asleep in spite of the fact that he was in the middle of a case.

The doctor was asleep in the same armchair I had seen him in during past visits; apparently he had taken a liking to that one. Or perhaps, I mused, it had simply been the one Sherlock had not claimed for himself. Either way, he was fast asleep, snoring gently, still in the clothes he had been wearing last night.

I decided not to wake him, and slowly made my way towards the other armchair. I seemed to be having trouble balancing, for I nearly tripped several times on my way over. I made it there, however, only to stumble against some object lying in the shadow of the armchair.

I actually let out a yell as I began to fall, both from being caught off guard and from the pain that shot through my ribs as I tried to jerk myself upright. This sound had an astonishing effect on the doctor.

He jerked awake abruptly, eyes wide and looking for danger, and quickly identified me as the source of the sound. In another second he was up and reaching out to steady me as I tried to force my breathing to steady and my vision to return to normal. He leaped forward and caught me as my knees gave out from under me.

"Oof! Holmes!" He called, staggering under my weight. Sherlock shifted, groaned, and swore at the doctor, who responded with an oath of his own as he eased me into the armchair that I assumed had been claimed by Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly demanding an explanation for- for what? For tripping? For waking him up? For-

"What are you doing up?" He demanded sharply as he began to go over my injuries again, to make sure I hadn't hurt myself any more when I had tripped, I guessed. "You should still be in bed." He admonished more calmly as he finished his inspection. "How do you feel?"

I blinked up at the man, silently agreeing that perhaps I should _not _be up yet. "I'll be fine." I growled nonetheless; I wasn't about to let a retired army surgeon push me around.

"Not if you don't use your common sense." He retorted. "Four fractured ribs; you're lucky you didn't puncture a lung last night, and you certainly don't need to be up and running about yet."

I don't know why his reaction bothered me so much, perhaps it was simply that I never _have_ cared much for doctors, not since I was a young lad, but this treating me as if I were his _patient_ set me off. I was _not_ going to be bullied, or pushed around, or chastised by this fellow. "Now, see here, doctor-" I exploded, but my ribs rebelled at both the vehemence of my words and the forward motion that had accompanied it, and I gasped, which only made it hurt worse. I broke into a fit of coughing as I tried to recover myself.

The doctor didn't say a word, but automatically moved to my side to help me. When I finally got my breathing under control I glared up at him, daring him to comment, but he merely moved his hand to rest on my shoulder and eased me back into a more comfortable position in the chair. I leveled another glare at him as he moved to lay a blanket over me, in spite of the fact that I _was_ feeling a bit cold.

He spread it over me anyway, not intimidated in the slightest. "Don't get up." He ordered. "I don't want to try moving you back to the bed by myself, so we'll have to wait for either Holmes or Gregson to wake up. No arguments." He added, seeing that I was about to open my mouth.

I would have said something anyway, had the amateur detective on the couch not stirred ever so slightly and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'm _not_ arguing." Startled, my gaze darted from Sherlock's once again still form back to the doctor.

He was barely managing to hide a grin, and there was a gleam in his eye as he himself sat back down in his own chair.

He was soon beginning to doze off again, but suddenly wrenched himself awake to glare at me suspiciously. "If I fall asleep, I'm not going to wake up to find you collapsed somewhere because you were foolish enough to try to get up again, am I?" He demanded. It was evident from the tone in which he spoke that if I did not promise to stay put he would simply stay awake.

Realizing I didn't really feel like going anywhere at the moment anyway, I offered him a small smile. "Rest easy, Doctor, I'll be right here when you wake up." No point in arguing right now anyway, not while Sherlock and the Inspector were still asleep.

I closed my eyes and settled back in the chair, figuring I might as well relax. I probably still had a few hours' wait for the other two to awaken anyway.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	13. Chapter 13

I must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to the heavenly scent of breakfast. I opened my eyes and stifled a yawn as I tried to make sense of the scene before me.

Gregson had taken the doctor's place in the other armchair and was helping himself to a steaming plate of food, the smell coming from it undoubtedly what had awakened me. Sherlock and the doctor were also awake, and both were seated on the couch, arguing in an undertone so as not to disturb me.

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock stated finally, and I gathered the discussion had ended. There was no budging the man when he was like that, I well knew.

Apparently the doctor did not. "And you don't sleep when you're on a case." The former retorted, all but throwing the plate at the amateur detective. "You haven't eaten a decent meal since you started this case three days ago, and unless you want that wrist to get any worse, I suggest you use that steel will of yours to force something into your stomach."

"Worse?" Sherlock echoed my own question. Was the doctor threatening to further the man's injury?

The other merely gave Sherlock a tolerant smile. "Well, you see, I was so busy with Lestrade, and it was so late last night, that I could have been mistaken about how badly your wrist was sprained. It might just need to be put in a sling, to give it a chance to heal, you know, and-"

Sherlock cut off the threat with a growl and stabbed a sausage with more force than was strictly necessary. "I don't know what I was thinking," he complained, "taking rooms with a physician."

The doctor merely beamed at him before turning to me. "Ah, I see you're awake. Breakfast?" I nodded, too hungry at the moment to feel any lingering embarrassment about the fact that he was getting it for me.

I must have flushed, though, for Gregson chuckled. "Don't feel bad, he's insisted on serving everyone so far." He informed me reassuringly. It seemed the Inspector could be tolerable after all, on occasion.

After attending to me the doctor then proceeded to fix his own plate, and sat back down beside Sherlock on the couch.

"I want to move Lestrade back to the bed after breakfast, Holmes." The doctor said after a minute. "He really shouldn't be up."

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "Do you think I _enjoy_ having other people in my bed, Watson?" He demanded harshly.

The doctor didn't even blink. "I don't think it would be a good idea to try to put him in my room." He explained easily, as if he hadn't just been insulted. "We nearly dropped him last night just getting him to yours. I don't think the couch would be the best place for him either."

Sherlock shrugged. "Very well, then." He conceded, setting aside the now empty plate and pulling out his pipe.

Gregson was staring at the two of them; then he blinked and turned to see if I had witnessed the same scene or if he had just been imagining it. I raised my eyebrows to let him know I_ had_ seen it, but I didn't understand it any more than he had.

Throughout the rest of breakfast the doctor made it perfectly clear that I wasn't going anywhere for the next day or so, Sherlock brought him up to speed on the case we had been working on, and Gregson, it was decided, would inform the Superintendent of the details of last night and that I was laid up.

When at last the meal had finished, Gregson stood up, almost but not quite waving off the doctor's final inspection of his shoulder, and headed for the door with the promise to report back here when he was done at the Yard. Then, disentangling himself from the doctor, he bid us all good day and left.

Not a minute later we heard a shout, followed a dreadful clatter outside.

For several agonizingly long seconds, nobody moved.

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Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	14. Chapter 14

"Gregson! The stairs!" Holmes was up in a flash and had launched himself over the back of the couch. He was out the door in less than a second.

"Stay." The doctor warned me before dashing after Holmes. I struggled to my feet anyway and made my way after them, albeit much more slowly.

The doctor was kneeling beside the body crumpled at the bottom of the stairs by the time I reached the top.

"Holmes! I need your help." The doctor called, and Sherlock, who had apparently been studying the stairs, moved to his side instantly.

I couldn't make out the flurry of words being thrown back and forth between the two, but after a moment they straightened the still form of Inspector Gregson out. Sherlock moved to kneel by his head, the doctor by his feet, and in a few brief seconds they were lifting the man and actually carrying him up the stairs.

If Sherlock's wrist were troubling him, he seemed oblivious to the pain, but the doctor grimaced as he fought to carry his end of their burden. I wondered if it were his injury, whatever it had been, that he had received in the war that was troubling him.

"Out of the way, Lestrade." Sherlock snapped as they reached the top of the stairs and surged past me. They maneuvered Gregson over onto the couch, and the doctor was already examining the Inspector as Sherlock went for the medical bag I had tripped over earlier in the morning.

"Thank you." The doctor muttered as Sherlock set the bag beside him. "Get Lestrade to sit down, if you will, I don't want to have to worry about both of them."

Sherlock nodded, to my surprise, and was suddenly escorting me to an armchair. I absently noticed it was the doctor's chair, and the amateur detective seated himself in the other, though he sat perched on the edge, ready to render assistance at a second's notice, should it become necessary.

"What happened?" I asked of the man. "How did you know Gregson had fallen down the stairs?"

Sherlock turned his attention from the doctor and Inspector. "I am somewhat familiar with the sound of a person falling down the stairs." He said dryly, his gaze flickering briefly over to the doctor before returning back to focus on me.

"He didn't fall, he was pushed." The doctor threw over his shoulder.

"Pushed?" I repeated. If so, our quarry knew where we were.

Sherlock frowned at the doctor. "I suspected as much, but was not entirely certain…"

"He didn't slip; he would not have gone down head first. You know that from experience, Holmes." The doctor continued shortly, and my eyes widened.

Sherlock Holmes, fall down the stairs? But the man in question merely nodded in agreement. "Could he have tripped?"

"It's still not likely he would have gone down head over heels like that. Was there anything for him to trip over?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "I don't leave things lying about on the stairs any more, not since last time." He rose from his chair and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" I demanded.

Sherlock turned to look me dead in the eye. "I am going to endeavor to discover something about the Inspector's assailant." He informed me before darting once more for the door.

"Be careful, Holmes." The doctor called after him.

* * *

Disclaimer: Now you and I both know that I am_ no_t Mr. Doyle and therefore, own none of this.


	15. Chapter 15

The doctor finished with Gregson and came back over to check on me. Impatient with being stuck here waiting for news while Sherlock was out running around, I tried to wave him off, even going so far as to snap at him.

"For heaven's sake, Doctor, give me a moment's peace!" I finally shouted at the man. He merely lifted an eyebrow, not intimidated in the slightest by my outburst.

Of course not, what was I thinking? Anyone who lived with Sherlock Holmes would be used to far worse. I growled and resigned myself to being poked and prodded.

"How's Gregson?" I asked as soon as the doctor was finally satisfied.

"He has a concussion." The doctor replied. "His shoulder's worse, and his leg is broken." I groaned; this case was rapidly going downhill. And here we were, dragging the doctor into it. If we weren't careful, he could get caught in the cross-fire. I didn't relish the thought of putting the doctor in danger, even if he had followed Sherlock on a few of his cases recently.

"And you're certain he was pushed?" I asked, more for conversation than anything else. The doctor nodded.

"His injuries suggest as much." He replied. "He's lucky that's the worst of it."

I considered this, then went back to something Sherlock had said earlier. "Mr. Holmes said he knew what a body falling down the stairs sounded like." I commented, and the doctor seemed to eye me almost warily. "Then you mentioned he knew something about him knowing from experience that the Inspector didn't slip."

The man suddenly seemed very interested in his bag. "Yes, well, as much as Holmes knows, it's no great stretch to imagine he would know what a person falling down the stairs would sound like." He said evasively, and I wondered if he were trying to protect the amateur detective.

"But you said the Inspector didn't slip." I persisted. "That Mr. Holmes should know that personally." When the doctor didn't deny it, I pressed on. "So tell me, when did the Great Sherlock Holmes manage to slip and fall down the stairs?"

The doctor blinked, and reddened, and the truth hit me. _Sherlock_ hadn't fallen down the stairs, the doctor had, and I had just thoroughly embarrassed him. "Forgive me, Doctor." I said quickly. "I did not mean-"

"Quite alright." He cut me off, forcing himself to meet my eyes. "You could not have known." He shrugged, mostly in an attempt to relieve some of the tension between us. "This was back a few weeks after we had moved in here, when the weather was so bad." He explained. "My leg was bothering me, and I-" He forced a laugh. "Holmes came running in ready for a fight, looking for some assailant. It took me an hour to convince him that I had just lost my footing."

The silence closed in on us, and I found myself asking, "Your leg? Is that where you were wounded?"

The doctor nodded, still uncomfortable, but no longer as embarrassed. "I was lucky. A lot of men never made it out alive." He was rubbing his thigh absently as he spoke. "But it can be a trifle bothersome when the weather's bad." He offered with a grin.

That was probably an understatement, but I returned the smile, and tried to find something else to talk about. I was, however, saved the trouble as the doctor stood and went back over to check on Gregson.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson, etc. do not belong to me.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: I went on an updating spree. I'm sure nobody minds, though. I had the stuff already written, and so I thought I'd go ahead an post it. Enjoy!

* * *

Several hours later we were still waiting for Sherlock to return. Gregson had regained consciousness, and had been able to confirm that yes, someone _had_ pushed him, but was not up to doing much more than that. He lay still on the couch where he had been set down.

The doctor was sitting in Sherlock's chair, trying to read some novel or other but having great difficulty in succeeding; he was starting to worry about the amateur detective. The doctor would stare at his page for a while, glance up at the window, and from there to the clock before returning his gaze to his book. He had not actually turned a page for the last twenty minutes.

I wondered at this reaction. I had little doubt that Sherlock had simply pulled one of his clues out of thin air and impulsively gone on in pursuit of Gregson's attacker. Sherlock had little patience when it came to taking the time to secure backup, or even to let one know he was still alive. He would show up when the chase was over, offer the most ridiculous explanation he could think of for all this, and that would be that.

I heard a door open below, and the doctor was up and out of his seat in a second. He could move quite quickly, I noted, when his instincts as a physician were aroused. The doctor was across the room and out the door in a flash.

"Holmes, is that you?" I heard him call. A second later I heard his footsteps on the stairs. There was a muffled conversation at the bottom, and two men slowly made their way back up.

The doctor came through the door, Sherlock leaning heavily against him. The detective's jaw was clenched and his skin was pale, and he seemed to be holding his side.

The doctor's jaw was also set, his eyes worried. He led Sherlock to his chair, helped him into it, and promptly reached for his bag. "Here. Let me see." He ordered, and Sherlock moved his hand to reveal the bloody gash in his side.

The doctor wasted no time in examining the injury. "Knife wound." He muttered. "Did you walk up to him and announce yourself, Holmes?"

The detective nearly laughed, but winced as the reaction caused him pain. "He was waiting for me." He replied softly. "Followed him not a few blocks, and into a dark alleyway. I turned the corner and walked right into him."

"What happened to being careful?" The doctor asked, his eyes flickering from the wound he was treating up to Sherlock's face.

The man did not reply, choosing instead to ask if Gregson had improved any. The doctor informed him that the Inspector had awakened, briefly, and had confirmed our suspicions as to the method behind his fall.

Sherlock nodded at this, though his actions were slow, lethargic. "They know where we are." He said quietly. "They will come to finish the job. Possibly tonight."

The doctor took the news better than I could have hoped. "I can send for the police." He offered slowly, studying the man before him intently. "Inform the Yard."

I looked over at Sherlock. Surely it would be better to have the doctor out of harm's way. Sherlock hesitated, ever so slightly, then nodded. "They cannot afford to let us to live." He said. "Go out the back way, Watson, and for heaven's sake do not let yourself be seen."

The doctor nodded and checked on Gregson once more before nodding to Sherlock and myself, swallowing nervously, and slipping out of the room.

I breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. At least the doctor had a chance. And more, he now knew everything we did; he would be able to pass on the information we had obtained. Whether he would return in time with help, however, I was doubtful.

A door opened; Sherlock's eyes met mine, and he was struggling to his feet. I too was on my feet as several men took the stairs and reached the room.

The largest, a brutish looking man and the leader of the gang, looked from Gregson to Sherlock to me and grinned wickedly. He crossed the room boldly and shoved me roughly back into my chair. His companions, two equally rough looking characters, laughed.

"Not much left to finish off." The leader of the gang, Anderson, remarked with a sneer. He turned to Sherlock. "Just three lame ducks, and the doctor's flown the coop." He grinned back at me. "Where's he gone off to? He leave you three here in an effort to save his own skin? Or perhaps you were trying to protect him." He suggested.

"No matter." Sniggered one of the others, Smith. He was about as intelligent as a sheep, that one. "We'll find him anyway, and finish him off too. Can't risk him going to the police, just in case you lot told him anything."

"Of course, you could just save us the trouble," Anderson added, drawing out a revolver and leveling it at Sherlock, "and tell us where he's hiding."

"He's not _hiding_ anywhere." Came the sharp reply, and I turned to see the doctor standing in the doorway, revolver in hand, his weapon pressed in the back of Anderson's other companion, whose name I had no idea. "Drop it." He ordered.

Anderson laughed. Then he wheeled about and took aim. The doctor's hostage dropped to the floor with a surprised grunt. Anderson smiled. "Goodbye, doctor." He said as he again raised his weapon.

Two shots rang out, and Anderson staggered. The doctor was across the room and relieving him of his weapon in a moment. He held it aimed at Anderson, with his own pointed at Smith, and called to the latter. "If you have any weapons, I suggest you relieve yourself of them."

Smith considered it, and bolted for the door. The doctor let him go, turning his attention instead on the leader of the bunch. "Get up." He ordered, his voice hard. "And don't try anything else.

Anderson pulled himself into a kneeling position, and stared up at the man who had shot him. "You're a doctor." He accused, as if a doctor either should not have a weapon or should not be capable of shooting people. I wasn't sure I disagreed with him. My mind was still reeling at what I had just witnessed.

"Retired army surgeon." The doctor replied coldly. "We carried arms too, and were expected to use them if the need arose." He handed Anderson's gun off to Sherlock, and went to the criminal's fallen companion. He reached and felt for a pulse, though his expression said quite plainly that there was no point. "He's dead, but I'd wager you already knew that." He said to Anderson harshly.

It was then that we heard the door open once more, and more footsteps on the stairs. Several constables stopped short just inside the door, eyeing the doctor's revolver uncertainly.

He lowered it, and winced, his other hand going reflexively to his arm. Sherlock hissed and was up and out of his chair once more. Paying no attention to the men that were now being removed from the room or to those moving them, he made his way to his flat-mate.

"You've been shot." I watched curiously as the doctor forced a smile, almost as if to reassure the other man.

"It grazed my arm." He said lightly. "Just a bit of blood, no harm done. I'm fine, Holmes."

All the same, he let the detective inspect it before he banished him back to his chair and insisted that he should not be up. "Sit down, Holmes, and I'll take care of it. I can't do anything about it if I'm waiting for you to collapse." He scolded. Sherlock must have been satisfied that the doctor was not badly injured, for he allowed the other man to escort him back to his seat.

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, but I wish I did.


	17. Chapter 17

I awoke the next morning with only the vaguest recollections of the night before. I remembered Anderson's arrival, and the doctor's return, and that the doctor had subdued Anderson and received an injury of his own for his troubles, but what had happened after that I could not quite recall.

I heard a familiar shout, and opened my eyes. I was in a bed, the same one, in fact, in which I had spent the previous night. I yawned and tried to remember where I recognized the voice that came from the other room.

Voices, I corrected myself. There were two different voices, one loud and angry, the other forcedly calm and soft. The latter was the familiar voice of the doctor trying not to wake someone up. The other-

"I don't care if he's sleeping, or eating, or passed out drunk in the bathtub, and I don't know who you think you are-" I stifled a groan. The Superintendent was here, and he was _not _happy.

"_I _am a doctor, sir." Came the controlled, albeit stiff, reply. "And when I say that neither of your Inspectors needs to be awakened, I mean just that. Now I'm sorry, but you are just going to have to wait to get a report from them."

"Now you listen here, _Doctor_! Unless-"

"Lower your voice, if you please." The voice that interrupted the Superintendent was dripping with acid.

"Unless" the volume actually went _up_ a notch, "you wish to be charged with obstruction, _you_ will get out of my way and let me speak with my men!"

"And unless you can gain some control over yourself, sir, I will ask that you remove yourself from the premises." The doctor's voice had softened in response to the Superintendent's increased volume. "Furthermore, your criminals have been apprehended and can at the least be held for murder and attempted murder based on what happened last night, and as for this case, I am not completely unaware of the details and could probably give you a great deal of the answers you seek. That being said, I see little evidence for your charge of obstruction of justice and little reason to wake any of the gentlemen under my care."

I sat up, realizing that I should probably go and rescue the doctor from the Superintendent, and managed to get myself upright. Somehow I made it out of the bedroom and to the sitting room, where the Superintendent was staring at the doctor as if he had never before seen anything like him and was not pleased with the revelation.

I cleared my throat before the man could shout again; after all, as long I was up there was no need to disturb Inspector Gregson or Sherlock.

The Superintendent was promptly forgotten as the doctor turned and saw me leaning on the door frame. "Good heavens!" He exclaimed, darting towards me. "What do you think you're doing?" He demanded as he reached me, and I really did not have the energy to fight him off as he took my arm and led me to his chair.

He immediately began fussing with the bandages, and checking to 'make sure I had not injured myself further' and reminding me that I was _supposed_ to be in bed.

The Superintendent growled impatiently as the doctor's actions were distracting me from trying to have any conversation with the man, let alone give the demanded report on all that had happened. "Doctor Watson!" He finally bellowed, adopting his _I'm-dealing-with-bumbling-incompetent-constables-and-I've-finally-lost-my-patience _tone; it was guaranteed to make every man in Scotland Yard jump to attention and quake in absolute terror, myself included.

The doctor's eyes flashed to the limp form of Inspector Gregson, who still inhabited the couch and was now starting to come around in response to the Superintendent's shout. He was by the couch in a second, checking to make sure Gregson did himself no harm if he did indeed awaken, apparently unfazed by the Superintendent's bellow.

As the Superintendent, satisfied that the doctor was now out of his way and oblivious to the fact that the doctor did not seem cowed in the slightest, seated himself in Holmes' chair and turned his attention to me, I became aware of rapid footsteps in the hall.

The doctor groaned and was up and heading for the door in a second, coming to a halt just beside it as it burst open and Sherlock Holmes burst through. "Watson?" He caught sight of the Superintendent, and took his hand from his pocket; I could just make out the bulge that was shaped rather like a gun.

"Here, Holmes." Watson said reassuringly, stepping forward to catch the detective as he staggered and headed for the floor. "I told you you'd lost more blood than you thought." He said as he helped the man across the room. He eyed the Superintendent frostily. "He doesn't need to be standing, if you don't mind."

The man stood; he certainly had no quarrel with the wounded detective. He was practically glaring, however, at the back of the doctor's head as the man got Sherlock settled. "The gang was apprehended." He informed Holmes as he stood and headed for his desk. "The Superintendent, here, needs a report from each of you, and I suppose since the two of you are awake you can speak with him, if you feel up to it." He brought the chair from the desk over and offered it to the Superintendent before going back over to check on Gregson. "Don't be too long," he admonished, "they _are_ both still recovering."

The Superintendent shot the doctor a poisonous glance, and in the other chair Sherlock stiffened. "Let's start with last night." My superior said after a minute. "What the devil happened here?"

I stifled a groan, for I was still trying to sort the previous evening out myself. Sherlock merely smiled.

"Let us begin," He said to the Superintendent, "with the night before last, when Inspector Lestrade was nearly run down by a cab at three o'clock in the morning and nearly took Inspector Gregson and myself with him. Seeing that Lestrade was unconscious, and perhaps seriously injured, and knowing that we were not far from Baker Street, I left Gregson with him and ran to fetch Doctor Watson, knowing that he would most certainly come.

"When we returned, it did not take long for Watson to ascertain the damage and see to the worst of it before it was decided that the Inspector should be moved here, where he could be fully treated in safety. Watson, Inspector Gregson, and I carried him back here and put him in my bedroom, where Watson continued to treat his injuries.

"In the morning it was decided that Inspector Gregson should carry a report back to you; after breakfast he departed. No sooner had he left these rooms than he was set upon and violently thrown down the stairs, sustaining such injuries as have kept him mostly unconscious since.

"Knowing that he could not have simply fallen, I went out in pursuit of Gregson's attacker, leaving him in the care of the good Doctor. I myself was attacked during this pursuit, and was fortunate enough to make it back to Baker Street and nearly collapse on the front step.

"When I had awakened, Watson, Lestrade, and I discussed the situation, and I sent Watson out of the house, allegedly to go to the Yard and inform you of the situation."

I had not missed Sherlock's use of the word _allegedly_, but it seemed the Superintendent had. "So you made sure to get the doctor out of harm's way." He said with a condescending smile, and I could have sworn Sherlock nearly _bristled_.

"It was imperative, if the very people we were hunting knew exactly where we are, that the Yard be reached." Sherlock said with slightly more force than necessary.

"Not long after Watson had left, Anderson and two of his men showed up and found the three of us in the living room. They knew the doctor had been there, and demanded to know where he was, perhaps suspecting that I would have filled him in on the case."

At this point, Sherlock's attention switched to focus on the doctor. "I assume that you sent a message to the Yard and doubled back?"

"Sent one of your boys, yes. He'd been hanging about since witnessing the attack on Inspector Gregson, waiting for orders." The doctor replied, looking up from the former.

"Good lad." Holmes commented. "Mrs. Hudson let you in through-"

"The kitchen window." The doctor finished. "Though she said she was a bit surprised to see me instead of you."

"A remarkable woman. And you had your revolver with you-"

"I slipped it in my pocket when you said an attempt had been made on Lestrade." I was surprised at this, a doctor carrying a gun so casually, and picking one up _just in case_. And he certainly had not hesitated in firing last night.

"How is your arm, by the way?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor considered. "To tell you the truth, I'd almost forgotten about it." He admitted sheepishly. "The bullet merely grazed the skin, so it's a bit painful but not unbearably so. It could probably do with a few stitches, but I _did_ take care of it, Holmes."

Seeing that the Superintendent was just about to again express his frustration, I quickly joined the conversation. "Doctor Watson returned shortly after the gang arrived, and coolly ordered Anderson to drop his weapon while pressing his revolver into the back of one of Anderson's associates. The gang leader's response was to shoot the man Doctor Watson was holding, and almost immediately after aim a shot for the doctor. Two shots rang out, and Anderson fell. The doctor relieved Anderson of his weapon, and Smith made a break for it."

"They caught Smith on his way out?" Again, Sherlock was addressing the doctor. I wondered if the slight toward the Superintendent were intentional. Surely not. Sherlock Holmes was abrasive at the best of times, but for him to actually be trying to offend the Superintendent-and to what purpose?

"They did." Watson replied. When he said nothing more, I continued.

"Then the police showed up, we realized that Anderson had actually gotten a shot in on the doctor. Then-" I hesitated, for my memory was not exceedingly clear on that.

"Then I had to practically drag Holmes back to his seat, by which time you were out again and Gregson was running a fever," The doctor informed me irritably. "and by the time I finally got the last of the police force out of here with the promise that none of you were going to be up at least until morning, Holmes had decided that he was fit to be up and about and nearly fell down the stairs himself, and by the time I managed to argue _him_ back to bed Gregson was delirious." I blinked, and Sherlock frowned. The doctor was not usually this verbose in my presence, and I could never recall him being so free with his actual words.

"He spent half the night that way, in fact." The doctor continued with some annoyance, this time addressing Sherlock. "And by the time the worst of it was finally over _this_ fellow barged in insisting that he speak to all three of you at once and refusing to accept the fact that you were resting and _should not have been disturbed_."

Sherlock offered the doctor a placating smile. "My dear Watson, _you _are exhausted. For that matter, when was the last time you ate something?" He asked quickly.

"The same time you did." The doctor retorted, checking on Gregson once again. Yesterday morning, at breakfast. The man had not eaten much then, and had not eaten since.

"And the last time you slept-" Came the next question.

"I slept this morning." The doctor retorted.

"You mean dozed." Holmes correctly softly. "You doze when you are with a patient, you don't sleep."

"If by sleep you mean in my bed, without listening to see if a patient is all right, or if someone is coming, then the last time I slept I was abruptly awakened by a pile of clothes and a medicine bag being dropped on me while you shouted that someone had tried to kill the good Inspector and to come quick!" The doctor grumbled, and glared at the triumphant sound Sherlock made.

"I thought as much. You are always unreasonable when you haven't slept for a few days, especially when you haven't eaten in at least a day. Mrs. Hudson!" I jumped as he let out a bellow that would give the Superintendent a run for his money. The doctor didn't so much as bat an eye.

"Don't even think about getting up, Holmes." The doctor warned him.

"My dear Watson, I would not dream of causing you further concern. Mrs. Hudson!"

"Shh!" Watson hushed him, looking back at Gregson. "I'd rather he slept a little longer, if it's all the same to you, Holmes, before I have to start arguing with _him_ about staying in bed."

"Mr. Holmes?" The landlady had appeared in the doorway, quiet but still disapproving.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock replied with a smile. "The good doctor has been so busy with his patients that he has quite neglected himself, and has, in fact, not eaten since yesterday morning. Would you be so kind as to bring something up from the kitchen for him?"

The woman looked at Sherlock, then over at the doctor before her gaze swept over the rest of us in the room. "You look like you could use something too, Mr. Holmes, and the Inspector. I bring something up shortly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock offered another smile.

She shook her head and left, only to reappear a moment later with another chair. "You needn't be sitting on the floor, doctor." She admonished sternly as she set it down.

"Thank you." His smile was genuine, and weary, I suddenly noticed. He dragged the chair over beside Inspector Gregson and seated himself with a sigh, relaxing visibly.

Sherlock was watching. "This simply won't do, Watson!" He declared. "You cannot go without sleep, or food-"

"Y_ou're_ one to lecture me on eating and sleeping properly!" The doctor cut him off indignantly. "And anyway, when have I had time? Between Gregson's fever and Scotland Yard, the only time I might have been able to get _a cup of tea_ I was frightened half to death by someone trying to kill himself on the stairs!"

I watched in fascination, and part of me wondered if this outburst were the end result of their rooming together, and if I were witnessing the end of such arrangement.

Sherlock frowned. "Calm yourself, doctor." He said softly. The doctor merely glared at him.

The Superintendent, all but forgotten, spoke up. "While I understand that this has been an unsettling experience, we are getting off track. I appreciate your emotional state, doctor, however-"

"Emotional state?" The doctor repeated. "My emotional-"

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock cut off the doctor's forming retort. "Excellent! You never cease to amaze. I find I have a bit of an appetite myself upon seeing this remarkable spread."

She smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. No, don't get up, doctor, I'll serve." She insisted firmly, and proceeded to hand out generous servings of the baked goods she had brought up.

"Tea, gentlemen, coffee? Doctor?"

"Coffee." He replied promptly. "Tea for Holmes and the Inspector. They need _rest_." Sherlock, surprisingly, didn't argue.

"Sir?" Mrs. Hudson turned to the Superintendent.

"Tea, thank you." He replied quickly, and the landlady retreated.

The doctor did have a healthy appetite, and was too occupied with his meal to contribute much further to the discussion of the case, or to notice the slights the Superintendent kept tossing his way. The doctor had apparently made an enemy of the Superintendent during their altercation earlier.

Sherlock Holmes, however, seemed both to notice and to actually care, unless I was greatly mistaken. His frown deepened as the discussion went on, but he said nothing until Mrs. Hudson came to clear the dishes.

Then he nodded towards the doctor, and Mrs. Hudson and I followed his gaze to find that the doctor had actually fallen asleep over his cup of coffee. "Mrs. Hudson, send him to bed, would you be so kind?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." The landlady set the dishes aside and gently took the cup from the doctor's hands. He started awake then, blinking, and looked up at her in confusion.

"Off to bed with you, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson said gently. "You've done enough already, and certainly more than your share." He shook his head and tried to wave her off.

"I'm quite alright, Mrs. Hudson, thank you." He said, stifling a yawn. The smile Mrs. Hudson gave him was almost motherly.

"Don't worry, Doctor, I'll look after this lot here while you get a few hours sleep. You're no good to anybody if you collapse right here. Rest assured, I'll come for you first thing if anything happens."

He was, it seemed, too tired to argue. "All right, Mrs. Hudson." I watched as the landlady ushered him out of the room and presumably off to bed. I turned back from the door to see Holmes out of his seat and in the Superintendent's face.

"If Doctor Watson is less than his usual self today, then it is because he has spent the last two keeping your men _alive._" Sherlock hissed. "Aside from the valuable medical services he had provided, had he not shown up when he did last night, the three of us would probably been dead by the time the police got there. For that reason alone, you owe it to him to at least be civil, never mind the fact that he is a veteran. He is also one of the braver, more intelligent men I have known in my life, and certainly deserves better than to be insulted by you for having nothing more than good intentions. And if you cannot keep your opinions of the man to yourself while you are here, then you may leave."

I stared at the man who addressed the Superintendent with the same cold, threatening tone that he had used on criminals in the past. More so, the Superintendent actually seemed to be more surprised than indignant.

As Sherlock finished and all but collapsed back into his chair, his icy tone thawed. "He will undoubtedly apologize to you later for his alleged 'deplorable' conduct, for certainly had he not been holding himself upright and awake through sheer force of will he would not have even considered mentioning any of his own troubles, let alone said anything to offend you or anyone else here, for that matter."

"Quite so." Mrs. Hudson had returned, and heartily agreed with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. "The doctor is one of the kindest men you'll ever meet, and will take more than his share without uttering a word of complaint. It's a mark of how tired he is that he said anything at all."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said as she picked up her tray. "You needn't return, we'll be quite all right here while Watson sleeps."

The landlady smiled indulgently. "As if I would leave you alone up here even if I thought the doctor wouldn't find out, and then I'd never get him to leave again."

"Yes, well, we shall not all die while you take the dishes back to the kitchen." He conceded.

"I should hope not." She retorted.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine. The nasty Superintendent with no name, however, is, and has no name because I was too lazy to give him one. If you would like to name him, feel free to send in suggestions, and I'll pick the one I like best, but if not, he shall continue simply being "The Superintendent." :)


	18. Chapter 18

By the time we got rid of the Superintendent, my head was pounding, and it was a fight to keep my eyes open. I breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone, and was startled to find I was not the only one who had done so.

Sherlock was looking over at the landlady, who smiled. "I feel the same way, Mrs. Hudson." He said wearily. "It is good to be rid of the man. No, don't get up." She had moved to stand as he had. "I can at least get to my own bed. Inspector Lestrade does not seem to be going anywhere tonight."

"It's quite all right." I assured the landlady. "I'm too tired to actually want to move anyway. Terribly sorry to inconvenience you like this."

"Nonsense." The woman replied as Sherlock left. "It's the least I could do for one of Scotland Yard's men, and it isn't the first time I've sat up with someone. Her eyes followed the unsteady path Sherlock had taken, and I suddenly wondered how often she had done just this: relieve the doctor for a few hours and keep watch over the amateur detective. He had, on occasion, obtained various injuries in relation to his work, I knew. I wondered how many Mrs. Hudson and the doctor had worried over.

"At least it's only Mr. Holmes this time." She said softly, and I stared at her. Did she mean that the doctor-?

I was too tired to think about all this. My head was throbbing, and something was not quite right with my vision. I determined I would worry about it tomorrow, and finally gave in and allowed sleep to overtake me.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes still does not belong to me.


	19. Chapter 19

The doctor slept away the rest of the day, through the night, and awoke the next morning, at which time he tried to both thank Mrs. Hudson for her kindness and scold her for not taking care of herself.

"You should have wakened me." He reproved, but there was too much gratitude in his voice for him to convince her not to try it again in the future. "Go get some rest, Mrs. Hudson, and don't worry about breakfast."

"I'll get some rest _after_ breakfast." She told him. "You'd think this were the first time I've been up all night on account of Mr. Holmes' cases, the way you carry on."

"Thank you." He said again, and she smiled and left. The doctor went straight to Gregson, who had been awake for about four minutes several hours ago, and examined him once again. Satisfied, he then turned to find me in the chair and groaned.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Inspector. I wasn't thinking. I should never have left you in that chair all night."

"It's all right." I said quickly. "I've been sitting so long I probably wouldn't have been much more comfortable in any bed."

"All the same." He said as he turned his attentions to my injuries. I waited in silence, resigned to my fate. I wondered how long I was going to be stuck here.

"It's coming along nicely." He said as he finished. "And I don't know how much good it will actually do to say so, but the less you're up and about the faster it'll heal. All in all it's looking rather good." He seemed less worried today, whether that was from a night's sleep or because of the improvements, I didn't know. "Holmes is in his room?"

"Yes, Doctor." I replied. The doctor left, but returned shortly. Seeing my confusion, he explained.

"Better to let him sleep. Once he's awake he'll want to be up, and don't be getting any ideas from him. The man thinks he's invincible."

"So how long do you think I'll be laid up?" I asked hesitantly, not sure I wanted to know. This was not a place I wanted to be trapped.

The doctor considered. "Depends. If you stay in bed and do what you're told, maybe two weeks, a week and a half."

I groaned. Then it hit me.

Here was a chance to watch these two, to study their relationship outside of a case, and maybe figure out why one of them hadn't killed the other yet.

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not, and never will, own Sherlock Holmes and company.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's note: An interesting story to take a peek at is Pikeru's Angel's _A Trifle Mad_. Very entertaining.

* * *

Gregson woke up that afternoon, and actually stayed awake, although I am sure he regretted it immensely. The doctor was greatly relieved by this development, and promptly began informing him that just because he was awake did _not_ mean he was to be up and running about.

Inspector Gregson nodded, and promptly asked if the doctor might have a book he might borrow, since he seemed to have a bit of time on his hands.

Doctor Watson smiled. "I have books, the news, paper, pencils, and you are certainly welcome to them. What kind of book do you fancy, Inspector?"

They spent the next half hour discussing various genres of literature, and I was thoroughly bored out of my mind by the time they had found something for him and the doctor turned to me.

Innocently, I hoped, I asked "Did you say you had paper?" He nodded, and fetched me a few sheets and a pencil. Then he retreated to check on Holmes once more.

Good. If I were going to observe the two, I would need to take notes.

_Sherlock Holmes: Does not stay in bed when injured._

_Doctor Watson: Nags about staying in bed if injured._

A chuckle distracted me and I looked up at Gregson, who was watching me. "Taking notes? We aren't on a case."

"Beg your pardon?" I demanded. The Inspector laughed.

"You have your note-taking face on." He explained. I glared at him.

"Did it occur to you," I whispered, "that we are in the ideal situation to figure out exactly why those two haven't gotten rid of each other yet?"

By the look on his face, it had not.

* * *

Disclaimer: Does anyone out there actually think that I think that I own Sherlock Holmes? Cause if there actually were someone, I would hate to disillusion them of such a fantasy.


	21. Chapter 21

_Sherlock Holmes: Smokes. A lot._

_Doctor Watson: Nags about eating properly._

The following morning Sherlock was up and smoking his pipe, and doing an excellent job of fogging up the room. It was getting stuffy and downright oppressive by the time the doctor showed up.

He went straight for the window and opened it wide. "If you could stop choking the Inspectors, Holmes, breakfast should be here soon." He said pleasantly.

Not two minutes after, Mrs. Hudson arrived with a meal. I was growing thoroughly jealous of these men's cook. The doctor made sure Gregson and I had food before he started preparing his own plate.

"Breakfast, Holmes." He admonished gently.

"No, thank you, Watson. I find I have little appetite this morning." The detective replied.

"You're not on a case, Holmes. There's no reason for you not to eat."

"I am not hungry."

"You need to eat something. You need to take care of yourself."

Gregson and I watched in fascination as the detective put just enough food on his plate to get the doctor off his back.

* * *

Disclaimer: You know the drill. Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me. This gets downright boring after a while, doesn't it?


	22. Chapter 22

Author's note: Since these are short, and I don't have an update for The Detective of the States, I'll be nice and give you three of these tonight._

* * *

___

Sherlock Holmes: Plays the violin. Badly.

I grimaced, and Gregson looked ready to claw his eardrums out. The doctor sat at his desk, writing, apparently still oblivious to the atrocities being committed in this very room.

Sherlock Holmes had been tormenting Gregson and myself for the last hour. Apparently he had healed enough to play again, for he had come in this afternoon while the doctor was out, picked up his bow and violin, tuned the blasted thing, fiddled with the bow a bit, and begun trying to drive the two of us who were trapped in the sitting room insane.

My relief at the doctor's return had been short lived. He never seemed to even notice as he came in and went straight to his desk. He had been writing for about fifteen minutes now, and hadn't even so much as flinched at the sounds Sherlock was making.

Once again I considered objecting, but Sherlock was facing the window and hadn't seemed to hear me the first or even second time I had not-so-subtly groaned, and I really didn't know how to tell the man his musical abilities were horrendous.

Another torturous five minutes passed, and Gregson looked ready to shoot himself, if only he had a gun on his person. I rubbed my aching head and wondered how much longer this would go on.

The doctor abruptly stopped writing and uttered a sigh of his own, and his hand too went to his temple. "I say, Holmes?" He called casually, and to my amazement, Sherlock stopped, studied his flat-mate for a moment, and set the violin aside.

Gregson and I simply stared.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company do not belong to me.


	23. Chapter 23

_Doctor Watson: Doesn't sleep when the weather's bad_

I wasn't sleeping. I was tired of being injured, and I was tired of being trapped in Baker Street. I was especially tired of Sherlock Holmes, who had been up and about for a couple of days now and was currently out on a case, and rapidly growing tired of Doctor Watson, especially after the irritable mood he had been in today.

I had reclaimed Sherlock's armchair after the doctor had finally gone up to bed; it still remained beside the couch where I had convinced the doctor to move it earlier today, the doctor's desk chair sitting in front of the fire next to his armchair. Gregson still took up most of the couch, and I had insisted that I would be more comfortable near a fellow Inspector (or farther away from Sherlock, to be honest). I had initially suggested the desk chair go there, but the doctor had refused on the grounds that I was still recovering, and moved the closer armchair over.

I was grateful he had not thought to put it back after I had let him banish me to Sherlock's bed. I sank into it and wondered if Gregson were awake.

"Can't sleep either?" His voice broke the silence. I growled.

"I'm tired of being cooped up in here, with the doctor fussing and worrying as if I were at death's door." I informed him.

He sighed. "I know what you mean."

We sat in silence. Neither of us had ever been on the best of terms, and though our temporary imprisonment here had left us temporary allies of a sort, we could think of little to say.

"Is your wife worried?" Gregson asked. I shook my head.

"She's visiting her mother. Took the children with her. I hope to be home before she returns."

"She doesn't mind you not going?" Gregson seemed surprised. I shrugged.

"Her mother and I are not on the best of terms." I offered. That was the extent of our conversation. It was nice, however, to be able to sit and suffer together.

I listened to the rain outside, the wind blowing intermittently, rising and falling but rarely ceasing. Now and again lightning flashed, and thunder rolled. I wondered if Sherlock were getting drenched out there. Served him right for being up and about while I was still stuck here.

Gradually I became aware of footsteps in the hall. I looked over at Gregson, who had a finger to his lips. We waited in the darkness, glad that the nearly dead fire gave little light to the room.

The footsteps continued, slow and uneven, almost unsteady. They paused outside the door, and I looked back over at Gregson.

He appeared to be fast asleep, either to catch an intruder off guard or to avoid a conversation with either of our hosts. I leaned back in the chair and followed his example, watching the door through a crack in my eyelids.

My eyes went wide as the door creaked open and the doctor shuffled in, leaning heavily on a cane. He did own a cane, of course, and carried it with him when he went out, but I had never seen him carry it in his home, and had rarely seen him freely make such use of it.

I watched as he shuffled his across the room in the dark. In spite of his lack of speed he seemed to know exactly where he was going; his free hand found the back of his chair effortlessly and he moved to almost collapse into it with a pained grunt.

He set the cane to rest against the side of the chair not readily visible from either the door or the couch, as if now that he was sitting he wished to deny its presence. Then he sat staring into the dying embers of the fire, his hand massaging his thigh. He sighed, and remained sitting that way in the darkness.

A quarter of an hour passed this way, and Gregson and I remained silent, fascinated. Again we heard footsteps on the stairs, again the door opened, and Sherlock Holmes entered the room.

"Still up, Watson?" The amateur detective greeted him quietly, as if not to wake us. "No, don't get up. I am not as drenched as you would imagine. I went out prepared."

"Prepared?" The doctor asked, and I thought his voice sounded strained.

"You haven't been yourself all day. Surely the most certain indication of a change in the weather." Sherlock replied as he strode across the room. In a second he had reached the chairs and was stirring up the fire, in another he had gone for one of the extra blankets the doctor had been keeping in the sitting room for my and Gregson's sakes.

He settled the blanket over the doctor, who murmured a weary thank you, and went to pour himself and the doctor a drink. "Will you sleep at all, do you think?" He asked as he sat down across from the doctor, taking no notice of what chair he was appropriating.

"I may doze off eventually." The doctor said with a shrug. "You should get some rest, no sense in us both being up."

The detective sniffed. "Well, if you aren't at all interested in the case I just finished, then I certainly won't bore you with the tale."

A soft chuckle. "I would be delighted, Holmes. You know that."

Five minutes of the frightfully dull tale was enough to put Gregson out, and after three more the doctor had stopped asking questions. I was just dozing off two minutes later when Holmes stopped and the doctor stirred, urging him to continue. He did; however, I did not recall much more after the next ten seconds.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	24. Chapter 24

_Sherlock Holmes: snoops through the doctor's papers._

I held my breath as the doctor entered the room. Gregson too, tensed. Sherlock Holmes didn't even look up from the desk. "Writing again, are you?"

"Mmmm." The doctor nodded as he paused to examine Gregson's injuries. He had not yet noticed the detective sitting at his desk.

"Haven't thought of a title yet?"

"No, not yet, though I have several ideas." Gregson stared past the doctor at me helplessly. Neither one of us wanted to be here when the storm hit.

"Each ridiculously romantic, I am sure."

"You might say so." The doctor offered as he turned on me and briefly examined my ribs.

"Why that despicable woman?" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't know." Came the reply. Then the doctor frowned, straightened up, and looked over at his desk. Sherlock smiled and tapped the notebook with his finger. The doctor sighed. "I just can't seem to stop thinking about it lately."

"Lately as in since the Superintendent visited." Sherlock stated. The doctor nodded. "It has been so much in your mind that you have not finished the notes on the last case." He continued.

The doctor shrugged, and walked over to join the man. "It has." He confirmed. "I just don't know why."

"Don't you?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Consider the facts, Watson. One: you always finish writing up the notes on a case. Two: you were writing, as it is an excellent method of keeping awake during long nights, right up until shortly after the Superintendent's visit. Three: _This_ case," he waved the book, "has been on your mind, and you have attempted to free yourself of it by writing about it. What do you deduce?"

The doctor thought for a moment. "That something since the Superintendent visited has brought this other case to mind."

"Exactly!" Sherlock agreed. "What else?"

Another moment of thoughtful silence. "There must be some similarity between the two."

"And?"

"It would be something I did, or said, or saw, or heard myself."

"It would be, yes. Do you know what?"

I wondered at the arrogance of one Sherlock asking the doctor to deduce the reason behind his own preoccupation as if he himself were already aware of it.

The doctor shook his head. "No."

"Of course not!" Sherlock exclaimed. "But let us see if we can discover it. Tell me of this case of the malformed woman."

"The Case of the Malformed Woman." The doctor repeated. "I say, Holmes-"

"What? Oh, certainly, go ahead, my good fellow. You are more than welcome to it."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	25. Chapter 25

_Sherlock Holmes: Snoops through other people's papers as well_

I stared in horror as I recognized the papers Sherlock Holmes was reading. "Watson!" He called, and I heard the response from the hall.

"Yes, Holmes?" The doctor entered, and Sherlock beckoned him over. Gregson shot me a sympathetic glance. He too had recognized the object of Holmes' interest.

"Look at this." The doctor bent to read over his shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes does not stay in bed when injured." The doctor read. "Well, he's got you there, Holmes. Doctor Watson nags about staying in bed if injured." The doctor frowned. "Nags?"

"Certainly, my good fellow." Holmes confirmed. "Sherlock Holmes smokes a lot. Not very specific."

_"_You _do _smoke quite a bit." The doctor informed him. "Doctor Watson: Nags about eating properly. Nagging again?"

"Sherlock Holmes plays the violin badly." Sherlock frowned.

"Not badly, Holmes. But it can be trying sometime, specifically at two in the morning, or when you're thinking." Watson clarified.

Sherlock shrugged and continued reading. "Doctor Watson doesn't sleep when the weather's bad." The doctor colored slightly, and Sherlock continued with commenting. "Sherlock Holmes snoops through the doctor's papers."

The doctor laughed. "You snoop through everyone's papers, if they're not put away. Whose is this, by the way?"

"Can't you tell, Watson?" Came the reply.

Another laugh. "Inspector Lestrade's, of course. I'm sorry, Inspector, I should have warned you not to leave anything you don't want gotten into where Holmes can find it."

"Excellent, Watson. How did you know?" Sherlock was prepared for another lesson in deduction, I realized. It was an absolutely amazing thing to watch.

The doctor smiled before replying. "I gave him the paper."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	26. Chapter 26

Author's note: This is loosely related to my story _The Body. _I did not want to make it into a larger piece, but there were elements in it asking to be further explored, and so this came about.

Also, I really have to say thanks, not just to everyone who reveiwed, but also to those of you who keep reading and keep reviewing. It is uplifting, encouraging; It really makes my day. So thanks to all of you!

* * *

I stared at the amateur detective in front of me. "Stay here?" I said uncertainly.

"Yes, here." Sherlock repeated impatiently. "Stay here, in this room. Sit, stand, talk, smoke, whatever you wish, but do not leave this room. I shall return shortly, and then I would be delighted to render you whatever assistance you require."

I looked over at the doctor, who looked as if he were considering objecting. He looked at me, then at Sherlock, then apparently changed his mind. I looked back at Sherlock.

"It _is_ important." He assured me, though what he was talking about I had no idea. Did he already know about the case? Surely not; he had been running around in Gregson's affairs all week. He must have been referring to something else, then.

"Very well, I'll stay." I conceded.

"Excellent." The detective was halfway out the door. "I'll be back shortly, Watson."

"Be careful, Holmes." Watson called, and the detective stopped.

"I am taking Gregson." He said, and it sounded as if he were reminding the doctor of this.

The doctor nodded. "I know. Still…" He trailed off, and Sherlock offered a reassuring smile.

"Fear not, Watson, I shall return." Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the room with the doctor. I sat down uneasily, wondering why Sherlock had not taken the doctor with him.

Why, for that matter, was I here?

The doctor sat in his chair, huddled under a blanket in spite of the fact that the weather was not at all chilly. Of course, he _had_ served as an army surgeon. It was possible he was used to warmer climes.

I tried and failed miserably at striking up a conversation with the doctor; he simply sat and watched the clock, and replied to all queries with short, monosyllabic answers. He was worried about Holmes, I realized.

I no longer found this idea so surprising, though I could not have explained it for anything in the world. There was simply no reason that the doctor should worry about, let alone like or even tolerate, Sherlock Holmes. Nevertheless, the doctor was worried now, and about Sherlock Holmes no less.

The hours ticked away slowly, and as each minute passed it seemed the doctor grew more and more worried, until at last the door opened, and the amateur detective returned.

"Holmes!" The doctor exploded, but refrained from saying anything more, and Sherlock merely nodded at him before turning to me.

"Thank you, Lestrade." He said, and I thought I detected a hint of genuine gratitude. "Now what was it you wished to ask of me?"

It was the first time I had asked for the man's advice that he had not once, during my visit, uttered some veiled (or not so veiled) insult about my intelligence or methods or about the Yard itself.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	27. Chapter 27

I wondered.

Gregson did too, I knew, as did most of the men at the Yard, though certainly no one dared to ask the detective.

I just didn't seem proper or even wise to walk up to Sherlock Holmes and ask him if he'd finally gotten fed up with the doctor, or if the doctor had gotten tired of him, or if something else had caused the two to part ways.

Something had to have happened. There was no denying that. One visit without the doctor, maybe two, was not unusual, but Sherlock had visited every day this week so far, and each time the doctor had been absent, and not a word had been spoken concerning said absence.

After six days, it was only natural that one would start to wonder.

The only solution we _could_ come up with was that they had parted ways. It was surprising, certainly; it seemed as if the two had forged some bond between them that simply defied explanation.

It was also somewhat disappointing. The amateur detective's visits had always been made somewhat more bearable by the doctor's presence, something that I had realized all the more this past week, and the thought that the doctor might no longer be visiting us was not all that pleasant.

Sherlock was due for another visit now, and I braced myself, preparing for the worst. I was astonished, and greatly relieved, to see his familiar shadow trailing behind him as he burst in on us.

I greeted them both, the doctor with perhaps more enthusiasm than was warranted. "Hello Doctor," I grinned at him, "we were wondering where you'd gone. Haven't seen you trailing Mr. Holmes here for a good week, now. We thought maybe you'd had enough of him."

He returned the smile wearily. "Well, it is certainly good to be 'trailing him,' as you put it, again, Inspector." He admitted, and I noticed that the man looked as if he had been ill recently. He was thinner, a bit pale, and there were shadows under his eyes. "Rest assured, however, that I have not grown tired of Holmes, or at least, not enough to justify moving out." He was of course teasing as he said it, though I thought perhaps Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable at the thought.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's note: Ever had one of those nights when everything was going well, you were bed at a decent hour, all nice and cozy and ready to sleep, and then...BAM! All of the sudden an idea came to you, and you just couldn't get any rest until you had gotten up and written? The only thing worse is when you're in the shower and there's no paper to write notes on. Anyway, this is in honor of that, and maybe it will leave me alone and let me sleep now.

* * *

I shot an incredulous glance at the doctor as he sat hunched over his desk, writing. Then I looked back at Sherlock. "It's two in the morning." I pointed out.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "And you called at this hour to what purpose?

I was still confused. "You two were running about all day and most of last night on that case of yours."

"Yes." Holmes agreed once more. "And I am awake now because you were in need of assistance."

"He should be exhausted." I pointed out. "He should be passed out and sound asleep by now."

"Yes, that is usually what happens at night." Sherlock replied irritably. "Unless someone decides to call and wake people up."

"Then why is he up?" I demanded, and Sherlock sighed.

"Because he is feeling _inspired_." The amateur detective replied. My confusion must have shown, for he continued. "He has to write. He won't be able to sleep, or eat, or concentrate on anything properly until he's finished writing whatever it is he's writing. Inspiration has apparently hit, and the good Doctor is helpless in its grip and the only way for him to appease it is to write out whatever story has so inspired him." He sighed once more. "Now, Inspector, as to the reason for your visit?"

I forced my attention away from that odd sight and even stranger explanation, and began explaining to Sherlock my predicament.

The doctor never even seemed to notice I was there.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	29. Chapter 29

Guilt finally got the better of me. "Sorry about this." The apology was weak. I should never have brought the man along, should never have let him get involved, no matter what Sherlock had suggested. But I had listened to the amateur, and as a result I could not look at the man beside me.

"I beg your pardon?" The doctor asked. I did not see his expression, but he sounded confused. He must have been hurt worse than I thought, then.

"I should have never allowed Mr. Holmes to talk me into this." I clarified. "My apologies, Doctor."

"Oh." Came the reply. It was followed by several long seconds of silence. Then the doctor spoke again. "It could be worse."

I turned my head to stare at the man on my right. A trickle of blood trailed its way down the left side of his face, and his right eye was going to be marvelously blacked in a few short hours, but he seemed more interested in scanning _my_ face, now that he could see it, for injury. He also seemed surprisingly unbothered by our current predicament.

He grimaced, then, and I once more berated myself for getting him into this. "Are you all right?" I demanded, my voice edged with more sharpness than I had intended.

"Fine." He assured me, though his clenched teeth told another story. Seeing my skepticism, he sighed and amended his answer. "My injured shoulder is bothering me. The way they have us tied up is wrenching it a bit."

As dire as our situation was, I still asked. "Your shoulder? I thought you said you injured your leg in the war."

A nod. "I did." He replied. "The two statements are not mutually exclusive." He fidgeted slightly in the chair he was tied to, paled, and then looked over at me. "I don't suppose you could manage to maneuver yourself over here, could you?"

I too was tied to a chair, but I did not think it was heavy enough that I could not move it some. "I think I can." I told him. "Why?"

"I have a scalpel in my pocket." He informed me. "I had it out earlier and absently slipped it into my pocket and forgot to remove it. Do you mind?"

I frowned, but began thumping my way closer to the doctor. "A careful man like you, Doctor Watson, shove a scalpel in your pocket?"

The doctor chuckled. "Holmes burst in as I was cleaning up and bid me come at once. I slipped it in my pocket because it was the better alternative to throwing it across the room and hoping it landed in my bag."

There was something still not entirely right about his story, but I was now where I wanted to be. "Which pocket?" I asked. "This one?" My back now to the man, I found one of his pockets.

"Yes. Careful." He said as I nearly nicked myself. The instrument was sharp. I worked it out and went at the ropes holding my hands. It was awkward work, but in a few short minutes they were free.

I made short work on the ropes binding my feet and then turned to release the doctor. He let out an almost inaudible moan and his face went white as his hands came loose, and his hand went to his shoulder. I quickly loosened his feet and helped him up, then reluctantly relinquished the scalpel to the man, as if it would actually be some sort of defense should our escape be discovered.

We crept from the room. I marveled at our captor's cockiness; the door was unlocked and there had been no guards posted. We closed the door behind us as we left and made for the shadows.

A second later we heard voices, and the doctor shot me an alarmed glance. That voice belonged to the leader of the group, and the other had to be Sherlock Holmes! He too had been captured, then.

"I swear, if you've hurt him-" Sherlock's angry declaration was cut off by harsh laughter.

"You are in no position to make threats, detective. If you want him to even have a chance at living, you will do exactly as I say." A chill ran down my spine listening to the man.

Sherlock and his captor reached the door, two more men following their leader. One of his minions opened the door and stepped inside.

"Oh, Doctor!" The leader of the group called. Beside me, the man in question lunged forward.

"Yes?" He replied conversationally as he slipped the scalpel against the man's throat. "About time, Holmes." He greeted the other man, who had seized the other member of the group and incapacitated him with ease.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor." He replied as he stepped into the room after the last of the trio. As he dragged the limp form back out, he said severely "You cannot allow the Inspector's enthusiasm to push you too hard, Watson, or you are naturally going to have trouble making it up the stairs on that leg."

Doctor Watson flushed, and scowled at Sherlock, but did not refuse his cane when Sherlock offered it to him. "I believe you dropped this when you and the Inspector were captured. You're bleeding, by the way."

"Yes, well, I tripped when they tried to shove me through the door and made the acquaintance of the chair they tied me up in."

"And your eye?"

"My captor thought I would be either too cowed or too injured to continue to struggle if he hit me."

"He should have known better." Sherlock muttered. "My apologies for letting you be trapped with Lestrade."

I flushed, and Doctor Watson, with his good eye, winked at me. "I think I actually prefer his presence; nobody tried to poison me this time and I didn't have to try to deduce what method you were going to use to make your escape."

"Someone poisoned you?" I asked. The doctor offered a sheepish grin.

"You asked, after my recovery, why you hadn't seen me trailing Holmes for a good week."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	30. Chapter 30

"I'm fine, Holmes!" Watson was already sitting up and shoving the other man off him. "Don't let him escape!" Reassured, the amateur detective took off in pursuit of our quarry.

I stood, ready to follow. Then I hesitated, wondering if I should follow in case Sherlock needed help or wait for the doctor. "Inspector?" I turned at the soft summons. Doctor Watson's eyes were suddenly on me.

He was no longer sitting, and had, in fact, gone back to lying where he had fallen. "You have to slow the bleeding, Lestrade, I'm going into shock." His voice was suddenly low.

I knelt beside him, and wondered how Sherlock had failed to notice the amount of blood that was coming from the Doctor's injury and staining his shirt a vivid red.

I had my coat off in a second and was pressing it to the wound. He hissed as I did so, then apologized. "More pressure, Lestrade, I'd rather be in a little more pain than bleed to death."

I nodded, and licked my lips nervously as I tried to do as he asked. This time he groaned, but managed to nod in approval. He was far too pale, and he was starting to shiver on the cold floor.

Hand still pressed tightly to his side, I started to maneuver him into a sitting position. I nearly dropped him when he let loose a burst of _something_, perhaps something he had picked up during the war, that I could tell was hardly complementary even if I could not understand it.

I settled him upright and apologized; he merely shut his eyes and let out a sigh. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. "I should be the one to apologize. You were only trying to help."

"You lied to Mr. Holmes." I said. "Why? The criminal could have waited."

"And leave a crazed murderer on the streets one more night?" The doctor demanded feebly. "Risk him taking another life? I'm a doctor. To risk the life of another for the sake of my own is something I cannot do."

I couldn't argue with him. The truth was, if our man escaped it was not only possible, but likely that he would kill again tonight. "All the same, you need taken care of, Doctor. Come on."

He didn't argue, but let me drag him painfully to his feet. He staggered, and nearly blacked out once I had gotten him fully upright, but somehow managed to stay conscious.

I was practically carrying the man as we made our way across the room. By the time we reached the door I was amazed he was still with us; his breathing was shallow and forced, and even through my efforts I could feel that he was still losing more blood than he could afford.

He stumbled, and bit back a cry as I caught him. He nodded his thanks, not having the energy to talk, and we continued on our slow, painful way.

He finally blacked out as I found Gregson with Hopkins close on his heel. I tried to ease the doctor down, dispatched Hopkins for medical help, and sent Gregson after Sherlock.

"Hold on, Doctor." I muttered as once again the two of us were left alone. "Hold on."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	31. Chapter 31

"I'm sure he's fine." Gregson didn't look up from his paperwork. "The doctor said that Doctor Watson would be fine."

"He always says that." I grumbled. "He just wanted to make Mr. Holmes feel better." Gregson snorted at the thought of Sherlock Holmes needing reassured.

"Why are you so worried about it?" He asked, finally looking up from his desk. "You've been worrying over the doctor since you finished writing up the case." Longer than that, really, though I was thankful he didn't say as much.

"You didn't see the injury, or the blood." I pointed out.

"What I meant was," Gregson countered with a sigh, "why are you so worried about Doctor Watson?"

I shrugged. "The man would rather have died that night than be the reason that murderer went free one more night." I said. "It's unusual."

Gregson finally lost his patience with me. He set down his pen and stood to glare at me. "If you're so worried about the man, then for heaven's sake, go see how he's doing!" He picked up a folder from his desk and shoved it roughly into my hand. "Go ask Holmes what he thinks of this. It would only be natural that you would ask after the doctor while you were there."

He let loose and exasperated sigh and began to escort me forcefully through the door. "And don't come back until you've at least seen the man." He ordered as he slammed the door closed behind me.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	32. Chapter 32

I resisted the urge to shuffle my feet as Sherlock looked over the file containing who knew what case. I sincerely hoped Sherlock did not want to discuss it, because I had absolutely no idea what it was about.

I cleared my throat, and was rewarded with a glare for interrupting the amateur detective's concentration. "Sorry." I apologized quickly. "I was just wondering how the doctor was doing."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively in the direction of Doctor Watson's room upstairs. "Go and see for yourself, if it is more important to you than this case." He said with some annoyance.

Dismissed, I backed out of the room and made my way nervously up to the doctor's room. I hesitated outside the door, then braced myself and knocked softly.

"Come in!" I opened the door and paused in the doorway, uncertain as to how to proceed from here. The doctor was in bed, and still looking rather pale, but he flashed me a surprised grin. "Inspector." He greeted me cheerfully.

"Are you that bored, that you're excited to see me?" I winced, horrified, and wondered where that had come from. It had just slipped out, it seemed.

The doctor merely chuckled. "It is that bad." He confirmed. "What brings you here?"

I shifted slightly. "I stopped by to ask Mr. Holmes' opinion of a case, and thought I would ask how you were doing while I was here."

"Well, that's very considerate of you, Inspector. Thank you." Doctor Watson replied politely. "I am healing rather well, though I've been told I lost enough blood that I should not be up for at least another week, and Holmes had taken the diagnosis to heart." He sighed slightly.

"You'd think a doctor would make a better patient." There I went again; I was too used to trading insults with Sherlock, I supposed, and in his absence the doctor was catching the flack.

He reddened slightly, but far from being insulted, the man actually smiled. "Yes, well, they say doctors actually make the worst patients." He replied easily, and I wondered idly if I could have liked the man if I had met him without his attachment to Sherlock Holmes.

"Lestrade!" A shout from downstairs interrupted the thought, apparently Sherlock had found something.

"Well, if you will excuse me, doctor." I said. "Mr. Holmes requires my presence. Glad to hear you are recovering."

"Thanks for the concern." The doctor replied. "Good day, Inspector."

I nodded and left the man in his room, then with a sigh resigned myself to spending the next half hour, at the least, being insulted over a case that wasn't even mine. I wondered if it had actually been worth it.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	33. Chapter 33

"You want me to do what?" I demanded, incredulous. Was my wife out to get me? I tried desperately to recall if I had done something recently to provoke her, but came up with nothing that would warrant this sort of response.

My wife merely smiled at me, her radiant blue eyes merry at my, in her opinion, unnecessary alarm. "You've had people over for dinner before, love." She reminded me. "And since you work with them as well as the other men at the Yard, it's only proper that you would invite them to dinner sometime."

"But, Lizzy," I protested half-heartedly, knowing as I spoke that I would make my way to Baker Street and invite Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson to join me for dinner tomorrow evening, "Mr. Holmes is hardly the sort of person that would enjoy such a social visit."

"But the Doctor probably would." My wife guessed, and of course, she was right. Doctor Watson got along well with just about anyone he encountered, as long as they did not cross him in his profession. "And it would be rude to invite the one without the other. Besides, I am curious to meet the man who so regularly triumphs over my husband in his work." I scowled at the mischievous glint in her eye as she teased me.

"And of course you expect me to be the perfect host." I retorted. She laughed.

"You've survived my mother, you can survive Mr. Holmes." She replied.

"Of course, dear." I conceded. "I shall call upon them and invite them when I get off work, if they don't show up at the Yard." Knowing my luck, they probably _would _show up, and it would probably be in front of Gregson.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	34. Chapter 34

As luck would have it, they _did_ show up at the Yard. They were wrapping up some case of Gregson's, and during the course of Sherlock's explanation of affairs a crowd began to gather, some of the men still being somewhat more impressed with Sherlock and his methods than Gregson and I were. Consequently, when I moved forward to extend my wife's invitation I suddenly found I had an audience.

"Are you and the doctor busy tomorrow night, Mr. Holmes?" I inquired in an undertone. Of course, that merely made the onlookers more curious.

Sherlock shook his head, and Doctor Watson looked puzzled. "We had nothing planned, Inspector." He answered carefully.

"Would the two of you, then, care to join my family and myself for dinner tomorrow night?" I asked, and reddened as Sherlock and the doctor stared at me in outright confusion.

Gregson, the annoying git, laughed. "The wife decide it was their turn to suffer through dinner with you, Lestrade?" He teased, and both men relaxed a little, though Sherlock now looked dismayed.

Doctor Watson, on the other hand, smiled reassuringly. "We would be delighted, of course, Inspector." He said cordially.

I nodded in reply. "Thank you, gentlemen. I will see you tomorrow at six o'clock."

I ignored the gathered crowd as I made my way back into my office, not even acknowledging Gregson's sympathetic glance. I was doomed to dinner with Sherlock tomorrow, and who knew what disasters awaited us, between Sherlock's sharp tongue and my wife's direct nature.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	35. Chapter 35

"Behave." I heard the whispered admonishment as I opened the door, and promptly pretended I had not. I nodded politely to the last two people I would ever want to find standing on my front steps.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson." I greeted them. "Do come in." I led them inside, and pretended not to be aware of the scrutiny the detective was giving my home. There was something violating about having the man here in my home, the one place I had always considered safe from him and his infernal deductions.

I took their coats and hats, and Doctor Watson's medical bag. I found it odd that he would be carrying it, but now that I thought upon it I rarely saw him go out without it when he and Sherlock were on a case. They must have found one, then, between yesterday and now.

I led them to the sitting room and offered them a seat. "Dinner's just about ready." I informed the men.

The doctor smiled as he sat down, uneasy but nonetheless trying to reassure me. Sherlock, to my dismay, remained standing as he proceeded to analyze every minute portion of the room.

Doctor Watson cleared his throat, and Sherlock blinked, then sat down on the couch beside his companion. Apparently the doctor's warning to 'behave' had not gone completely to waste, though the night was still young.

From upstairs I heard a thump, then a wail, then the clattering of feet upon the stairs. I winced as my children burst into the room and plunged it into chaos.

"Da! I did nothing of the sort!" My oldest burst out in his defense before his red-faced and teary eyed sister could even accuse him. My youngest looked from one to the other, unaware of the reason behind the ruckus but determined to do her share to add to it.

"Did too!" His sister accused. "You did it, and it was mean! It was, Da! Really! You should beat him for it."

My son looked absolutely horrified as his younger sister joined in. "Beat Jackie! Beat Jackie!" He shot me a pleading glance.

"It was an accident. Really, Da!" Jackie protested.

I stifled a groan. Why did they always have to give some variation of their _heathen children_ performance whenever company was here? They could be above reproach when they wanted to, but it seemed their greatest desire when company was involved was to scandalize said company. The last and only time the Superintendent had come for dinner he had announced that he would have thought that a man so diligent in upholding the law would do better than allow such absolute lawlessness in his own home.

I shot a glance in the direction of my guests; Sherlock looked absolutely appalled, but the doctor- the doctor was trying hard not to laugh as my older daughter tackled her brother and my younger daughter decided to add to the mess by wrapping herself around my leg as I moved to separate the two.

My face was burning as I finally gave up and resorted to desperate measures. "Front and center!" I bellowed, and my children froze, and pulled themselves into a straight line in front of me.

This seemed to amuse even Sherlock. I tried to ignore him as I glared down at my children. Jackie, my eldest, finally sank into a slouch. "It was my fault, Da. We were playing, and I got carried away, and I accidently broke Amy's doll."

Amy tearfully proffered the damaged doll, and I bit back a sigh. It was her favorite, and the one Lizzy's mother had given her. The glass doll looked very much like my oldest daughter, and the broken piece of arm was not something I could fix.

My daughter must have realized that, for suddenly tears filled her eyes and she held her arms out, wanting it back so she could say goodbye. I sighed and handed it back to her, and watched helplessly as she nodded and took herself off to cry quietly in the corner.

I turned to Jackie, who was looking quite ashamed of himself by this time, and merely fixed him with a glance. "I'm awful sorry, Da." He said earnestly. "I really didn't mean it. You know I didn't." He looked about ready to cry himself.

"You can go to your room until dinner." I informed him. "And no playing. You're in trouble."

"Yes, sir." He said, relieved not to have to witness any more of his sister's tears. He was up the stairs in less than a heartbeat, feeling, I was certain, absolutely miserable for his actions.

I reached down and pried Olivia, who had caught her siblings' somber mood and was now crying herself, from my leg. She flung her arms around my neck and buried her face in my chest.

I blanched as I caught sight of Sherlock's horrified expression, then looked for the doctor, certain he was just as appalled as the detective.

Doctor Watson was crouching next to Amy, gently asking her about the doll. She was mournfully explaining that her grandmother had given it to her, and that she had never had such a pretty dolly before, and that she knew Jackie hadn't _meant_ to break it, but that it was still broken.

"May I see her?" He asked solemnly. My daughter looked up at him, confused.

"But she's broken. Her arm's broken." Amy explained.

"Well," the doctor replied softly, "I've fixed a lot of broken arms in my time, perhaps you will let me have a look."

Hesitantly, my daughter handed over both the doll and the arm. Doctor Watson took them both with as much care as he would extend a patient, and looked them over with the same careful scrutiny. Then he looked up.

"I may be able to help this young lady." He said to my daughter seriously. Then he looked up at me. "Would you be so kind as to fetch my bag from the hall?" He asked apologetically, and I realized that the position he was in could not have been all that comfortable with his leg.

I was back from the hall in an instant, and my daughter and I watched with equally bated breath as he rummaged through his bag. He set to work on the doll with all the professional deliberation he would have used on a patient, and within a short minute returned the doll to my child.

"Now, that arm will never be the same again." He warned her gently. "And the bandage will have to stay on it. But as long as you treat her carefully, she should be fine."

Amy looked from the bandaged arm up to Doctor Watson and back. "You really are a good doctor." She breathed, and I reddened.

So did the doctor. "Well, I do what I can." I told her. "Just be careful with that doll, she can't handle being treated roughly." My daughter nodded solemnly, thanked the doctor, and rushed into the kitchen to show her mother.

"Children coming your way, dear!" I called in warning before turning back to Doctor Watson. "Thank you." I said earnestly. "I don't know how-"

"It was nothing." The man waved me off, still flushed from my daughter's praise. "I didn't realize you had children, Lestrade."

"Three." I replied awkwardly. "You've just met them all. I don't know what gets into them when company comes, usually they're better behaved."

The doctor laughed. "Yes, well, I hear that's what children do best; embarrass their parents in front of company. Jackie, I believe, is the oldest?"

"He's seven." I confirmed. "Amy's four, and Olivia is two and a half."

"They're beautiful." He declared. "Very healthy, too."

"Thank you." I said uncomfortably. This evening was already going worse than I had imagined, and we hadn't even gotten to dinner yet.

With impeccable timing, my wife sent Amy back out to put away her doll and announce that dinner was ready. I smiled at her as she made sure to inform the doctor first.

"Go tell your brother, will you?" I asked. She nodded, holding no grudge, and skipped up the stairs, her doll carefully cradled in her arms.

My wife greeted us in the kitchen, and laughed as she caught sight of our youngest. "Here." She moved forward to take her, but our youngest would not be budged.

"She's asleep." I realized with dismay. There was no budging her once she was asleep; she had a grip that defied any and all attempts at loosening her. She was also, unfortunately, a sound sleeper.

With a sigh of resignation I introduced Sherlock and the doctor. "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John Watson. Gentlemen, my wife, Elisabeth." My wife curtsied, and the doctor took her hand and greeted her warmly.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	36. Chapter 36

Author's note: Another updating spree! Happy Easter! Not to mention I feel guilty because I haven't gotten the next chapter of my other story written up yet. I have it done, I just have to finish typing it. But I did have these done, so here they are, and again, happy Easter.

* * *

We sat down at the table. I maneuvered my sleeping child into position more comfortable for us both, but was resigned to the fact that she would not be relinquishing her hold on me for some time. My wife was instantly busy serving the meal, starting with our guests, then moving on to me, then the children before she got her own meal.

Then the conversation began; between my wife and the doctor things managed not to get too awkward. Both seemed to have a proficiency for polite yet vague chatter, when they felt it necessary, although the conversation gradually moved on to more potentially disastrous areas.

"I'm glad to finally meet the man who looked after my husband after that cab accident." She said to the doctor with a smile that he returned as he reddened.

"It was nothing, ma'am." He assured her, and she shot him a disbelieving look.

"Nothing?" She demanded. "Who would've looked after him if you hadn't? I was at my mother's at the time, and this lout is so stubborn he wouldn't have sent for me." I cleared my throat, and realized I would probably spend the rest of the evening red-faced, as Sherlock spoke up.

"He is a rather stubborn fellow, isn't he?" The detective inquired pleasantly. "After all the times he's been proven wrong, he still insists upon arguing with me on a case."

"Ah, but Mr. Holmes," My wife replied, eyes flashing at the perceived challenge, "for every case he's had to call you in for, there have been at least a dozen where he hasn't needed your services."

"Yes, well, such cases are inevitably so simple that I doubt even Lestrade could botch them up." The detective returned airily, and the doctor shot him a warning glance.

My wife simply smiled. "My husband said your manners were somewhat lacking, Mr. Holmes. I can see he was being generous."

The doctor stared at my wife, and Sherlock, too, seemed puzzled. "Of course," she continued brightly, "it's hard to tell when my husband is understating things just a little to be polite or understating things quite a bit because he's afraid of saying too much. In your case, though, I suppose it was the latter."

I busied myself with redirecting my slack-jawed children's attention to their dinner while Sherlock studied my wife with no little curiosity. Doctor Watson was attempting not to notice the whole uncomfortable situation.

Amy, of course, chose that moment to ask. "If you're Doctor Watson, is he Mr. Holmes?" When the doctor nodded, Jackie looked up from his meal.

"You shouldn't be so mean to Da." He said reprovingly. Sherlock stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?" He inquired.

"Da's job's not an easy one, and you shouldn't make fun of him just 'cause he's not as smart as you." My son said sternly, and I wished that that disreputable fellow had actually shot me yesterday and put me out of my misery. My face was burning by now, I knew.

My wife through her hands up in the air. "All week you've been badgering me about meeting the 'Great Sherlock Holmes," and that's all you can say?" She scolded. "If you can't be civil, then off to bed with you."

"I'm finished anyway, Mum." He told her. Then he looked back at Sherlock. "It really is brilliant to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes." He stood, and took his dishes to the sink. "Night, Mum, night Da." He said as he took off.

Amy took a look at her mother. "I'm done too." She announced, clearing her plate as well. "Goodnight." She told us both, though she hesitated at the door.

"Thanks." She blurted out as she suddenly flung herself forward and hugged the doctor. He reddened, but did not pull away, and sat staring after her after she had left.

"You should probably go put the other one down." My wife said as she stood to clear the table. "You gentlemen can wait in the sitting room, if you'd like."

The two men were waiting awkwardly in the sitting room when I joined them twenty minutes later, after finally having gotten my youngest to wake up enough to let go of me and then gotten her back to sleep.

"We really should be going." The doctor said uncertainly. "Thank you, dinner was marvelous."

I nodded, and saw them to the door, and breathed a sigh of relief after they had left.

I had survived.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	37. Chapter 37

"This is embarrassing." Gregson growled. I had to agree with him. It _was_ embarrassing.

I tried to move so I could see the other Inspector, and absently noticed that my hands were going numb.

"I mean, how on earth did we not see that?" He demanded indignantly. I shrugged, not that he could see me. I wasn't in the mood for conversation. "If we do get out of this, Holmes will never let us hear the end of it."

I was inclined to agree, and let loose the sigh that had been threatening to escape for some time now. How could we have been so stupid?

A note had been delivered, anonymously, to the Yard, suggesting that "Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade would do well to be at the corner Canon Row and Derby Gate at half past seven tonight, concerning the recent murder of one Sylvia Finch."

We had gone, though we had been suspicious of the note, and been on our guard as we reached the street. Where our assailants came from I didn't know, but the next thing I knew, Gregson had gone down with a grunt and the I had been surprised as a burst of pain exploded in the back of my head.

We had awakened here, tied up in some dark warehouse by the river, bait for Sherlock Holmes. Two Police Inspectors of Scotland Yard had been tricked, taken down, and were now being used against the amateur detective.

I wondered which would be worse, dealing with the man after he had rescued us, or being left at the mercy of whoever it was Sherlock was hunting. I wondered if there were any way to stop the man from coming to our rescue.

I tested the ropes again; now my feet were falling asleep. Wonderful. "Gregson?" I whispered into the darkness.

"Yes?" He replied obligingly.

"What do you think are the chances of us getting out a warning before Mr. Holmes is set upon?"

"It's not Holmes I'm worried about." He replied, and I winced.

The doctor would be with him, and as calm as the man could be under pressure, I doubted he would be up for a brawl with the group of unruly men that were currently seeking his companion. Doctor Watson would be in more danger here than Sherlock, certainly.

"This is unacceptable." He continued after a moment, apparently taking advantage of the fact that I was actually speaking to start his rant up again. "We're Police Inspectors, not a couple on imbecile constables fresh on the job! How did this happen?"

"I don't know." I finally said. "We were on our guard, Gregson. It wasn't like we walked in with our eyes closed."

"And yet they still took us!" He fumed. "Sneaked up behind us and knocked us out cold. How the devil did they manage that?"

I shook my head. I didn't have an explanation, and he wasn't looking for one either. The Inspector just needed to let loose some of his frustration.

"This is going to be brutal." Gregson commented, and I couldn't help but agree.

We both fell silent as a door swung open with a creak, and somewhere in the darkness I heard the doctor's voice call out. "Inspector Lestrade? Gregson?"

A shot rang out, and chaos ensued.

"Holmes! It's a trap!" I heard Doctor Watson shout, and from somewhere else I heard a shout. There was a flurry of sound now, though I could see nothing in the darkness.

"It is very difficult to know if you are indeed here or not, Inspectors, if you insist upon being silent!" I heard Sherlock call out in the midst of the sound of blows falling and the tale-tell crashing of someone being shoved into some large object and knocking it down.

"We're here!" I shouted into the darkness, wondering how much good that would actually do.

"Thank you!" Sherlock shouted back. "Watson would you mind-" His sentence was broken off abruptly.

"Certainly!" Elsewhere, the doctor replied to Sherlock's request anyway. He was still conscious, at least, though whether he would actually make it to us was doubtful.

A moment later a figure loomed over me, and Doctor Watson spoke just before I would have jerked away. "It's me, Lestrade." He whispered as he went to work on the ropes binding my hands. "Are you hurt?"

"No." I replied. "My hands and feet are numb, though."

"No wonder, as tight as these are tied." Watson replied. "There we go. Is Gregson with you?"

"I'm here, and no, I'm not hurt either." Gregson spoke, and Doctor Watson paused to help me sit up before moving to release the other Inspector.

I blinked in the sudden light that shone out dimly in the warehouse. The doctor bit back a laugh. "Looks like they got tired of trying to fight Holmes in the dark." He commented, helping Gregson sit up as well. He began to massage the man's wrists, trying to speed the return of feeling to the man's hands.

"I'll be with you in a moment, Lestrade." He informed me in a low voice. "Keep an eye out for unwanted guests while you wait, if you don't mind."

He set Gregson to rubbing his ankles and turned his attention to me. "Mr. Holmes is out there by himself?" I asked. The doctor nodded.

"We didn't have time to get help. We were told they'd kill you at midnight." He replied evenly. As I took up the task of returning feeling to my feet, the Doctor stood and picked up the cane I had not realized he was carrying before. "When you two can stand, the exit is that way. We would be obliged if you would wait for us at Baker Street."

"Now wait a minute-" Gregson started to argue as someone turned the corner in this maze of junk and spotted the doctor.

"Look out!" I shouted as the man came up behind him, and Gregson and I lurched unsteadily to our feet to aid the Doctor.

Doctor Watson turned, and in one smooth motion caught his would-be attacker in the shoulder with the end of his cane before bringing it up to strike him on the side of the head with some considerable force. The man crumpled, and fell to the ground, senseless.

Gregson and I exchanged a surprised glance as the Doctor turned back to me and nodded. "Thank you." He said quickly. "Shall we go?"

We stumbled behind him, still a little unsteady from being bound for so long. He led the way confidently, darting around turns with a speed I would not have thought possible of the wounded war veteran who could barely manage the stairs to his rooms when the weather was bad.

Gregson and I caught up with him in time to see him drop his cane and utter an oath; the man blocking his path was brandishing a rather nasty looking knife at him. The Doctor waited, and when the man lunged forward to strike he blocked it with his right and let the rogue have his left fist right in the face. The Doctor's opponent staggered, and he took the opportunity to knock the knife from his hand and strike again, this time with his right.

The man went down, and Doctor Watson scooped up his cane as he was on the move again, examining his arm. "I didn't see the knife till he knicked me." He called back to us. "Stupid of me to drop my guard." He raised his voice. "Holmes?"

"Here!" Came the bellowed reply, and Doctor Watson veered off in that direction, leading us directly into the thick of a fight.

The Doctor took one look, sighed and plunged into the fray, brandishing his cane as he did. Gregson and I exchanged a glance.

The two were outnumbered, and this was our fault to begin with. We followed the Doctor's example.

"Took your time getting here!" I heard Sherlock comment as the Doctor saved him from receiving a potentially disastrous blow from behind.

"The Inspectors insisted on tagging along!" Doctor Watson retorted, dealing out another blow.

The conversation continued, when possible, throughout the fight. "I thought you were supposed to show them the way out!" Sherlock reminded the Doctor.

"You know how stubborn-" here one of the Doctor's opponents managed to get a hit in, and he broke off to utter an oath before shoving the man into one of Gregson's opponents.

Sherlock swore as well. "Watson!"

"Fine, Holmes!" The Doctor growled. "But you know how stubborn they are down at the Yard!" He said, continuing the conversation. He downed the last of his men at about the same time as Sherlock did, and turned his attention to assisting Gregson.

The fight over, Doctor Watson moved to lean casually against the wall. "Where did they all come from?" He asked, curious.

Sherlock looked around. "It would seem Thompson and Stone are getting nervous. They appear to have scoured London and hired a number of poorly trained thugs to do us in."

"Ah." The Doctor replied. "I hope that's the last of them. Between that and the brawl earlier, I think I've had enough exercise for the day."

Gregson had caught his breath, and moved to join the two. "Should we send for someone to round these fellows up?" He asked.

Sherlock laughed. "Certainly." He replied. "If you are certain you can do so without getting into further trouble."

Gregson went red, and departed without another word. I shook my head. It was only expected that Sherlock would comment on our capture, and I was inclined to believe he had the right this time, however humiliating the amateur detective's criticisms might be.

"Thank you." I said as the other Inspector left. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

"You could have been killed." He said bluntly. "I should think the best of the Yard would be a little harder to take in." He wheeled away, intent on studying the warehouse, perhaps.

I scowled, and started to retort before the man was out of earshot. Then I stopped. Had he just said…

Doctor Watson smiled. "He did." The man confirmed. The smiled faded. "We were worried we wouldn't get here in time." He added absently, reaching his cane out to rap the head of a man that was starting to come around.

"I have to admit I was somewhat surprised, Doctor." I said awkwardly, after a moment.

"Oh?" He replied, as polite as ever.

I gestured to the bodies lying around. "This. I never pictured you as much of a fighter. I mean, I knew you were in the war, but you were a doctor, and…" I trailed off, not wanting to offend the man.

"And even those serving their country in the medical capacity had to fight for their lives at times." He replied lightly, though his expression became grim. "Or for the lives they were trying to save." He added after a moment. "We were trained in combat, issued revolvers, and those who hesitated when it came down to it, trying to reconcile the oath 'do no harm' with the knowledge that lives could and probably would be lost if they didn't fight back, usually didn't make it."

"How did you reconcile that?" I asked cautiously. "How do you, when you accompany Mr. Holmes on a case?"

He shrugged, then winced, as if his shoulder were troubling him. "My job is to save lives." He said tiredly. "I couldn't do that in the war if I didn't survive myself. Here, with Holmes, I guess I choose the lesser of two evils." He offered a bitter smile. "Initially, I discovered that my reflexes were to remove the threat first and debate the ethics afterward."

Gregson had returned with help by then, and I let the matter drop.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	38. Chapter 38

I walked into the sitting room at 221 B Baker Street amidst a sea of scowling faces. Sherlock Holmes was scowling at Doctor Watson from his armchair, Doctor Watson was scowling at a third individual whose acquaintance I had not yet made, and this individual was standing beside the Doctor, glaring right back at him.

"It _has_ been recovering quite well, Murray, it just happens to be a bit stiff today." Doctor Watson informed the visitor with some irritation. I had noticed the Doctor tended to be a little less easygoing than he normally was when he was short on sleep, and he and Sherlock had been out running around till the early hours of the morning on Sherlock's latest case.

"Just today?" The stranger demanded, and the Doctor sighed.

"When the weather is bad, both my shoulder and my leg ache fiercely. You know that." He said shortly.

I watched in fascination as the debate continued, content to be ignored as long as the three men would let me. I had found it was better to simply wait, at least for Sherlock and the Doctor, until whatever discussion they were having had come to its conclusion.

"I also know the weather is as pleasant as anyone could ask for today, and was yesterday as well." Came the sharp reply.

Doctor Watson's scowl deepened even more, and he glanced over at Sherlock as if for assistance.

Sherlock remained silent, mightily displeased about _something_.

The Doctor surrendered. "A rather large fellow caught me in the shoulder with what I can only guess was meant to be some sort of club."

Sherlock stirred. "You said you were not injured last night, Watson." He said softly.

The Doctor shook his head. "I said I was fine." He corrected. "And considering that the blow was aimed for my head, remarkably well off. But it is only reasonable to expect that my shoulder would be a bit bruised and stiff today. It was nothing serious, Holmes. I told you I would not deceive you in such a way again."

Sherlock's glare softened into mild annoyance, but Doctor Watson's visitor was only further upset by this revelation.

"Do you make a habit, then, of getting into such dangerous situations?" He demanded. "What on earth do you think you're doing? Playing hero or some other such-"

Here Sherlock cut the man off. "_I_ happen to be a private consulting detective, and have found Watson's assistance in a number of my cases to be invaluable."

"Yes, I've heard of you and your cases." The man retorted. "I don't know if you've noticed, detective, but Doctor Watson was _wounded_ in the war, and discharged so he could recover, and to insist upon taking an _invalid_ out to fight crime is the height of-" The man broke off his tirade as the Doctor's face flushed a dark red and he turned sharply and stormed towards the door, and consequently me.

"Inspector." He nodded briskly, not quite meeting my eyes, and Sherlock stirred.

"Watson-"

"Out for a walk, Holmes." The Doctor cut off the query. "I'll try not to injure myself on the stairs on the way down." He added harshly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then rose from his armchair. "Good day to you, sir." He said coolly to the visitor as he too vacated the room and took refuge, I assumed, in his bedroom.

The man sighed. "I've done it again, I suppose." He said to himself. "I mean well, but somehow I always manage to offend the man." He looked up, then, and saw me. "I beg your pardon!" He started. "I did not see you there." He said nothing more, and an uncomfortable silence threatened to loom.

"Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard." I introduced myself.

"Murray." He replied, reaching forward and shaking my hand. "Are you a friend of Dr. Watson's?" He asked.

"No, actually. I came to see Mr. Holmes. The Yard, on occasion, comes across cases where we find ourselves in need of a little extra assistance, and Mr. Holmes has been of considerable help in those instances." I paused. "And you? You are a friend of the Doctor's?"

Murray shrugged. "I was his orderly in the war. When he was injured, I was one of those put in charge of him. I was in London, and thought to check in on him. Now I find he's running around trying to get himself killed with Sherlock Holmes, and-" He broke off with a sign. "And here I am, telling all this to a complete stranger." He shook his head, annoyed with himself.

"I have worked with Doctor Watson." I offered. "He has come along on a few cases when we called Mr. Holmes in. The Doctor, on those occasions, has been quite capable of handling himself." I tried to reassure the man; he merely threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I know he knows how to handle himself. _That_ is not what worries me." He replied with some frustration. He paused, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was with considerably more calm. "It's that he has such little regard for his own health if someone else's is at stake. Before the fever hit, we had to threaten to tie him to the bed. He kept trying to insist that there were others more in need of help than he, and that we needed every pair of hands we could get." He paused. "He was probably right, but he didn't need to be up."

He fell silent again, after that, for all of a few seconds. "And he's so touchy about admitting that his injuries were anything more serious than a paper cut. You can't offer him a hand up, you can't slow down for him, you can't even reasonably suggest that he might be in pain."

"He's hardly an invalid." I pointed out. Murray flinched.

"I didn't mean to say that. It's just that I can remember-"

"And he's come a long way since then." I interrupted.

"He has." Murray conceded. "He doesn't look to be on death's doorstep anymore, at the very least." He sighed. "He certainly does seem to have come a long way." The man's eyes strayed to the clock on the mantel as he spoke. "And I have to be going. I should have like to have apologized."

"I'm sure he knew you meant well." I offered, though what business it was of mine to say so I didn't know.

"I'm sure." He replied. "That was how it was in the war; I would say something stupid, he would promptly stop speaking me outside of what was professionally necessary, I would eventually go to apologize and he would insist that he was at fault for getting angry." He smiled at me. "Nice meeting you, Inspector." He said, and made as if to take his leave.

He paused at the door. "All the same, keep an eye on him, won't you?"

"As much as he will allow it." I assured the man, and he nodded and continued on his way.

I looked around the sitting room after he had gone. Sherlock knew I was here, and would come out when he was good and ready since the Doctor was not here to drag him out and insist that Sherlock not be rude.

With a soft sigh I settled down on the couch to wait.

Doctor Watson returned shortly, and I stood up as he entered the sitting room. "Murray had to leave." I said. "He wanted to apologize…" I trailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, I know." The Doctor replied cheerfully. "I met him on his way out. Thank you, though. Holmes in his room?" I nodded, and Doctor Watson shook his head. "He'll be out shortly."

"Thank you, Doctor." I called after the man as he headed in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	39. Chapter 39

Author's note: I couldn't help it. I was watching the new movie, since it recently came out, and it just struck me as interesting that Holmes could sit there and wave his violin bow in Watson's face, and while obviously annoyed, the doctor wouldn't touch the thing. So I borrowed some of the lines from the movie, and wrote this. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

"He's conducting an experiment." Gregson explained in hushed tones when I started to interrupt.

"And it's taken this long?" I demanded, my own voice a whisper. Gregson had left to ask Holmes for help _three_ hours ago, and I had, when the man had not returned within a reasonable time frame, reluctantly gone after him.

Gregson nodded, and I turned my attention from him to the two men before us.

"Get that thing out of my face." Doctor Watson said at last, breaking the silence.

"It's not in your face, it's in my hand." Was Sherlock's quick reply.

Doctor Watson wasn't fazed. "Get what's in your hand out of my face."

The Doctor was sitting at his writing desk, turned away from it, eyeing the violin bow Sherlock was brandishing at him, the tip mere inches from the Doctor's nose.

Doctor Watson was trapped; he could not retreat through the wall behind him, nor could he go over his desk, and the violin bow blocked the way forward.

"Holmes." The Doctor's tone suggested that he was getting tired of this 'experiment.'

Still the bow remained.

"The Doctor won't touch the thing." Gregson whispered. "He's been threatening Holmes for the last hour, but he won't actually risk doing anything that might damage the bow."

Doctor Watson sighed irritably. "I could just grab the thing, you know." He informed Sherlock. "Or simply knock it out of my way." Sherlock merely continued to brandish the stick.

"I do have other things to do today, Holmes." The Doctor tried again a few minutes later. "And you have two Inspectors waiting for you to decide to stop pestering me so they can talk to you." When this elicited no response, the Doctor growled at the detective. "This is absurd, Holmes!" He declared. "Is there some purpose to this- this-" He broke off, too exasperated to find the right word.

Ten minutes later the Doctor started swearing.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	40. Chapter 40

Author's note: Take it easy on Bradstreet, he's new, and doesn't know any better. :) And yes, the new movie has been coloring my writings again.

* * *

"_That_ is Sherlock Holmes?" Inspector Bradstreet stared at the disheveled man who was currently talking to young Stanley Hopkins. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gregson mouth the word 'rookie' to a puzzled looking Altherney Jones.

It was true that Bradstreet had just joined us here at Scotland Yard. It was also true that he had not had much experience yet with the amateur detective other than the incident this morning.

"Yes." Was all I could manage to reply as the two Inspectors became involved in something that looked suspiciously like a bet. I twisted the grin that was threatening to emerge into a grimace.

"And who is _that_?" He demanded, pointing rather obviously at the Doctor, who looked to be in rather a dubious state himself. He stood a little distance away from Sherlock and appeared to be leaning heavily on his cane.

"That is Doctor John Watson." I answered the man.

"And you allow these men to order and bully you about?" Bradstreet demanded.

"Usually." I conceded, not bothering to explain that the closest the Doctor got to bullying was when a dealing with a patient. "Mr. Holmes always has a good reason for anything he does, even if he doesn't usually give it first."

"He's insulting." Bradstreet said. "He insulted me. And the Yard. And you."

"He does that." I explained. I would have to remember not to complain about Sherlock until Bradstreet got gotten used to the way things worked when the amateur detective was concerned.

"And you let him?"

"What would you have me to do?" I asked, wondering, not for the first time, why I had to be the one to deal with the new Inspector.

"Refuse to give him what he wants until he gives you a reason. Refuse to work with him if he insists on being rude." Bradstreet suggested, and I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Take him and his partner down a peg or two."

I forced back a laugh. "You think that would work?" I asked.

"I do."

I smiled outright at the man. "Be my guest." I offered. I didn't think he would actually take me up on it.

"Right." He said, I stared after the fool as he crossed the room. Then I regained my wits and followed him.

Sherlock was still lecturing Hopkins as Bradstreet approached and tried to get the amateur detective's attention. Hopkins considered the other Inspector briefly, then went back to listening to Sherlock, not about to be caught not paying attention.

"He's in the middle of an explanation." Doctor Watson called to us with a weary smile. "He'll be oblivious to all else until he finishes. However, if there is any way I can be of service…"

Bradstreet didn't seem to mind the change of targets. Apparently he had not seen enough of the Doctor to realize that as far as manners were concerned, he was almost Sherlock's complete opposite, or that he was generally well liked around the Yard.

I stepped forward to make the obligatory introductions, feeling rather like a referee starting a match. "Bradstreet, this is Doctor Watson. Doctor, this is Inspector Bradstreet."

"Your new blood." The doctor recalled. "Pleasure to meet you, Inspector." He offered a hand which Bradstreet accepted, and I saw the Doctor wince as the Inspector shook it with more force than was necessary.

"It's nice to finally meet the man that had your amateur in here flinging orders and insults about earlier." Bradstreet said, and I thought the Doctor's friendly smile flickered for a second.

"You've already met Holmes, then." The Doctor's tone was no longer quite as warm.

"Unfortunately, yes. Is he always that way?"

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean." Doctor Watson replied mildly, though he knew full well what the other man meant.

"Rude, arrogant, obnoxious, insulting." Bradstreet clarified. "I don't know how you put up with him."

"He can be a bit abrasive at times." Doctor Watson's tone was even, carefully neutral.

"So you were captured." Bradstreet said. "Did they sneak up behind you and put a sack over your head?"

I winced. The Doctor laughed along with the oblivious man. "Actually, they tried to come up behind me and cut off my airflow so I couldn't call out before I lost consciousness."

"So they did this, and you-" I gaped as Bradstreet was stupid enough to try to use that same move on the Doctor. I guess he thought he would 'put the Doctor in his place' by first rendering him helpless and then showing him what to do in such a situation. Perhaps he meant to remind the Doctor that he had gotten himself in trouble earlier and that _the real police _had had to help rescue him.

Whatever his intention, the Doctor promptly tucked his chin under, reached up and got a hold on Bradstreets' thumb, and used it as leverage to jerk the man's arm from around his throat. In the same stream of movements the Doctor also let go of the Inspector, jammed his elbow into the his chest, and turned and decked the fellow with the opposite fist. He then stepped forward and tripped the man, shoving him to the ground, and drew the blade from his cane and had it leveled at Bradstreet's throat.

All this took less than ten seconds.

Doctor Watson blinked, and in one smooth motion sheathed the blade. Then he lunged forward to help the shaken Inspector up. "Easy there." He said gently, leading the Inspector to a chair. "My apologies, Inspector. I'm afraid I'm rather tired tonight, you caught me off guard."

Bradstreet was still trying to catch his breath. "You-" He gasped.

"I said they _tried_." Doctor Watson explained. "I reacted then much as I did just now. I never did react well to being strangled." He commented. "What actually got me was the second man. He hit me in the back of the head as I dropped the other fellow, then hit me again when I fell but didn't black out completely."

"How is your head, by the way?" Sherlock had joined us unnoticed, and the fact that the Doctor had just dropped the Inspector was probably the only thing saving him from the amateur detective's ire.

"Dreadful." The Doctor replied cheerfully. "But at least the room finally stopped spinning."

"Watson is not the wisest choice when trying to sneak up on someone, Inspector." Sherlock said, turning his attention on Bradstreet. "He has a tendency to knock you down before he realizes you aren't actually an enemy. A side effect of some of the battles he served in during the war, I suspect." He paused. "Come along, Watson, we have inconvenienced the Yard enough for one day." The two nodded to us, and turned and headed for the door. Holmes stopped, as if as an afterthought, and turned back to me, "Congratulate Gregson for me, will you, Lestrade?"

"Congratulate?" Bradstreet repeated.

"Yes, congratulate." Sherlock confirmed. "He just made some money off you, you know." With that the detective rejoined Doctor Watson and the two continued on their way.

Seeing the look on Bradstreet's face, I explained. "You're new. When they realized you had taken issue with Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, it seems that Inspectors Gregson and Jones took a bet, possibly on who you would confront. Gregson apparently won."

"One pound." Gregson supplied with a smirk as he approached. "And the bet was on who would put the rookie in his place." He eyed Bradstreet. "A word of advice: don't mess with Holmes, and don't mess with the Doctor. But especially don't attack, verbally _or_ physically, one in front of the other. Doctor Watson will put up with more than any human possibly could, but insult Holmes in front of him, and he'll put you in your place in a heartbeat. Be glad you got off as easy as you did."

"And you _did_ get off easy." He continued when Bradstreet would have protested. "It's never a pretty sight when one of them feels obliged to come to the defense of the other. Doctor Watson was starting to get aggravated, and Holmes was watching you."

Bradstreet stared at Gregson, then at me. I smiled. "Don't worry." I told him seriously. "You'll learn."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	41. Chapter 41

Author's not: Don't ask me what brought this one on, I honestly couldn't tell you. I'm not sure I was entirely sane when I wrote it...oh well.

* * *

I caught Bradstreet by the arm just in time to prevent him from trying to go to the Doctor's rescue. "Wait." I said, and the Inspector looked at me as if I were insane, but decided not to argue. I led him into the sitting room and over to the couch to wait for Holmes.

"Ah! Oh, good day, Inspectors." A red face Watson greeted us breathlessly, then went back to trying to get himself out of the predicament he was currently in.

The good Doctor was bound at the wrist and ankles. His wrists were tied in front, and the rope around his ankles was looped through a hook in the ceiling and tied off somewhere near the mantle, effectively leaving the man suspended upside down in midair.

Doctor Watson was trying to pull himself up to reach his ankles, and seemed to be doing a pretty decent job of it as well. His wrists were secured but he still seemed able to use his hands, and he had managed to grab onto the rope from which he was dangling within a few minutes of his arrival.

His jaw clenched, and he hissed and closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the rope. Then he grunted, and abruptly let go.

He fell back into the position from which he had started. The rope swung a bit wildly as he did so, and I winced as he hit one of the armchairs with enough force to nearly topple it.

Again I held Bradstreet back, and was relieved to hear Sherlock shout from the other room. "Are you all right, Watson?"

"I told you to move the blasted chairs, Holmes!" The Doctor shouted back. "What's the time?"

"Thirty minutes." Holmes replied as he entered the room. "Well?" He asked as he reached out to steady the man.

"He's lying. There is no way a man with a game arm and leg could manage his way out of this one." Watson replied shortly.

Holmes frowned. "Are you sure, Watson? If your life were at stake…"

Watson scowled. "If that were the case,_ I _could probably manage it, but I doubt he could."

"I told you to address this as if your life _were_ actually at stake, Watson." Holmes said sternly. "That is the only way we can discover if what the man said was possible or not."

The Doctor glared at him. "You aren't going to help me down, are you?"

"Not until I find out whether what he claims is possible or not." Sherlock replied. "A life _is_ at stake here, Watson. If the man is telling the truth, and we decide that he cannot be, then we condemn an innocent man."

Watson sighed, as much as he was able, and went back to his efforts. "One more time, Holmes." He grunted. Within a few minutes he had again managed to reach his ankles.

Again his jaw clenched, and again a hiss escaped the Doctor as his eyes briefly flitted closed. Then his hands started fumbling with the knot securing his ankles to the rope.

A groan escaped the Doctor through tightly pressed lips, and his hands slipped and he again fell back down. This time Sherlock was there to keep the other man from swinging about wildly.

"Let me down, Holmes." The Doctor gasped, understandably out of breath.

Sherlock frowned. "You almost have it, Watson. You just need a minute to catch your breath." He encouraged his colleague.

"I am in pain, Holmes!" The Doctor shouted in reply, and Sherlock started. For the Doctor to actually admit to such a thing, he had to have been in a considerable amount of pain indeed.

"Why on earth didn't you say so?" The amateur detective demanded irritably as he went for the chair at the Doctor's writing desk.

"Because it wasn't unmanageable before." Doctor Watson retorted as Sherlock climbed up and started untying his feet. "Hands first, Holmes. I don't – I don't want to fall on my head."

"Right." Holmes obliged the Doctor, who started massaging his wrists as the detective went back to loosing his ankles.

"He's going to fall." Bradstreet realized, and darted up as Holmes finally had the other man's ankles free. Doctor Watson fell.

He used his hands to catch himself just enough that his shoulder hit the floor and he rolled. He did not, however, make it back up onto his feet. Instead he sprawled on the ground in an undignified heap, panting. Sherlock stood there watching him anxiously.

Presently, the Doctor spoke. "Shortness of breath, dizziness from all the blood rushing to your head, numbness in hands and feet from being tied, and considerable muscle strain in both the leg and shoulder. Holmes, even if the man had been able to get down, he would not have been able to simply get up and walk away.

"But-"

"Holmes, you could threaten to shoot me right here and now, and I would be content to lie here and let you." Doctor Watson groaned to prove his point. "I think I bruised my good shoulder." He commented.

"Terribly sorry, old chap." Sherlock at least had the decency to apologize.

"Don't be silly, Holmes. I was the one who agreed to it." The Doctor replied. "And anyway, now we know."

Sherlock still looked unconvinced, and Doctor Watson let loose and exasperated sigh and dragged himself into a sitting position. "Look Holmes, the man can barely put any weight on his leg, and can barely use his arm. If _my_ old injuries were cramping up while I was trying to get loose, his would have been screaming by comparison. That last time I let go, I didn't just let go. The muscles in my shoulder were going into spasms and I lost my grip. There is no way on God's green earth the man would have been able to get himself loose.

"And even if he had," the Doctor continued mercilessly, "he would have fallen straight down, and landed on his back. It would have at least knocked the wind out of him, but possibly done some damage from that height. He was lying."

"Right." Sherlock finally conceded. "Of course." He looked over and acknowledged Bradstreet and me then. "Inspectors, good day. May I help you?"

"Well," I began. "We seem to have hit somewhat of a dead end on that case Gregson was telling you about yesterday."

"I see." The detective's eyes traveled back over to the Doctor, who had gone back to lying in the floor. "Are you planning on joining us, Watson?"

Doctor Watson groaned. "I'm perfectly fine where I am, thank you, and propriety be hanged." He replied shortly.

"Very well." Sherlock's attention was back on us. "Do continue, Lestrade."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	42. Chapter 42

"Don't move." An already pale Bradstreet went white as both Sherlock and the Doctor took aim. The man holding the Inspector captive merely laughed.

I swore. The Inspector had been doing well until this. There wasn't any room in our job for stupid mistakes, and Bradstreet was now learning this the hard way. I prayed he would survive, though I couldn't see how he would. Our man was a cold blooded killer, and might use the lad to escape and then just kill him anyway. Either way, I wasn't going to risk what slim chance we had of getting the boy back.

"You wouldn't dare." Our man sneered at us, and smirked as Sherlock lowered his gun with a curse.

Doctor Watson merely pulled the trigger.

Bradstreet's yelp made me sure that the Doctor's aim this time had not been true. But the man fell, shot through the forehead, leaving the Inspector trembling but unharmed.

Doctor Watson reached them right before the Inspector fainted. He lunged forward to catch the lad, and groaned under his weight.

"Excellent shot, Watson." Sherlock was studying the dead man as Watson eased Bradstreet to the ground.

"Thank you." Watson replied absently as he checked the lad over. I moved to kneel by him.

"Thank you." The words were nowhere near enough. "This idiot may turn into a decent Inspector yet, thanks to you."

Watson flushed, and shrugged it off as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	43. Chapter 43

Author's note: Another one of those stories written under the influence of the new movie, and apparently while I was half insane again. At any rate, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

* * *

"You want to what?" I demanded, certain I had not heard the man properly.

"I want to kill you." Sherlock confirmed that my ears were indeed working properly. "For a demonstration. It's only for a little while."

"Why can't you-"

"Because I have to apprehend the culprit." Sherlock cut me off impatiently. "And Watson can't; if something goes wrong he'll need to deal with it."

"If something goes wrong." I repeated with some resignation. "Why are you killing me?"

"For a demonstration." Sherlock's repeated impatiently.

Doctor Watson smiled reassuringly. "Holmes got into an argument with a group of doctors and wants to demonstrate once and for all that he is right." He explained.

The explanation itself told me very little. What was left unsaid told me more. The Doctor did not have a problem with Sherlock's quarrel with said doctors, or with him making a fool out of them, as he would undoubtedly do. More so, he was quite game for Sherlock's demonstration.

Something had happened, then. Sherlock would get involved in such a dispute only if Doctor Watson were under some sort of attack. The Doctor would not approve unless Sherlock had somehow been insulted as well in the process.

"Just how are you killing me?" I asked.

"A drug." Holmes reply. "It causes a temporary paralysis that is easily mistaken for death."

"Paralysis?" I echoed. "One that's mistaken for death? Do you mean that-"

"Your breathing and heart rate will drop to a level that is essentially undetectable." Watson clarified. "It won't last more than an hour or two, at which point you will regain consciousness."

"Mr. Holmes wanted you present, 'just in case.'" I reminded the man.

"Just in case you react badly to coming out from under the drug's influence." Doctor Watson explained. "And it isn't going to kill you. It simply may be rather uncomfortable."

"Why me?" I demanded.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, and Watson hesitated. "Because you were the third person Dr. Mills insulted." He admitted after a moment, and I understood.

I had found a body lying in the street. Thinking there was something off about it, I had sent for Doctor Watson and Sherlock. The Doctor had been troubled, but had pronounced the man dead. He had not, however, been able to identify the cause of death.

The following morning the corpse had allegedly woken up and gone home, frightening his wife and children half out of their wits. Dr. Mills had been called to examine the man.

Apparently Doctor Watson had been suffering as much as I had from this incident, if not more. I had been catching flack from the Superintendent, not to mention some of the men down at the Yard; apparently the Doctor had been experiencing the same difficulties in the medical profession.

Apparently Sherlock had also worked out what had been troubling the Doctor and had found a way to recreate the effect he had suspected. He needed a 'victim' in order to clear the Doctor's good name.

I sighed. "All right." I conceded.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	44. Chapter 44

Author's note: For the record, and to avoid confusion, anything you find under this title will be from Lestrade's point of view.

* * *

I opened my eyes slowly. Something was not right. My head was throbbing, I felt stiff all over, and I couldn't breathe properly. I also couldn't remember what I had been doing or how I had gotten here, wherever here was.

Here seemed to be lying flat on a cold table, with nothing covering me but a sheet. The sheet seemed to be covering me from my feet to my head. Perhaps that was why I was having difficulty breathing.

I listened, for a moment, to be sure I was not in some situation where it my be unwise to reveal that I was awake, but all I could hear was the sound of a medical discussion going on around me. I wondered grimly if these people were discussing me.

I heard the Doctor's voice, then. It was oddly reassuring. He did not sound as if he were in danger, so whatever was going on, I was likely safe.

I wished I could remember how I had gotten into this situation.

My mind was a bit foggy, and I realized I was still having a hard time breathing. I tried to move my hand to pull the sheet off my face, but my arm felt as if it were made of lead. I persisted, but at the most all I got was a twitch from my fingers.

Perhaps I was in danger after all.

Experimentally I tried to sit up, but found my muscles screaming in protest. I gave that up as useless, and tried to think.

Could I call out? Doctor Watson was out there, he would help. I tried to speak, but my throat was just as useless as the rest of my body. Not a sound came out. I have to admit I was starting to panic now.

I tried to pull in a larger breath of air, but the action set me coughing, and much to my alarm I suddenly found myself unable to breathe at all.

"Watson!" Sherlock's voice rang out, and as I tried both to stop coughing and catch my breath, I wondered if it had been he who had gotten me into this alarming situation.

"Sir!" I heard someone protest as a hand gripped the sheet and pulled it from my face. Doctor Watson was there, and wasted no time in maneuvering me into a sitting position.

"Calm down, Lestrade, there's a good man." He said calmly. "Small breaths for now, you can't handle too much yet." His arm wrapped around my back and supported me, and I tried to follow his directions.

Finally I managed the tiniest of breaths, a relief to lungs that were now screaming for air. "Good lad." I heard the Doctor mutter in my ear. "Focus on breathing."

"Wha-" I tried to gasp; this started another bout of coughing.

"Easy there, old chap." Doctor Watson muttered. "Don't try to talk just yet." I caught my breath, painfully, and he continued. "You came around faster than we anticipated." He said easily. "The rest of your body hasn't caught up with your brain."

I thought about asking what the devil he was talking about, but decided it wasn't worth it.

I wondered where I was, and where my clothes were. Then I frowned. Had I been a corpse?

It all came back to me then. The murdered man that got up and walked away, the verbal attacks on Doctor Watson and myself, and Sherlock's intent to prove that neither of us had been at fault. He was addressing a group of shocked doctors and, _oh dear Lord_, several inspectors, constables, and even the Superintendent now.

I thought about demanding to know why they hadn't warned me when I agreed to this, but decided it would have to wait until my breathing had returned to normal.

I glared at the Doctor, who was still holding me up. I doubted I could manage on my own yet; my body was still so stiff. "Holmes' concoction seemed to be rather more effective than what was used on the last man." The Doctor commented apologetically. _Of course it would be._

Dr. Mills himself was there; he and the Superintendent were both receiving a dressing down from Sherlock. I nearly choked all over again as the three started my way. Of course the doctor would want to have a look at me.

I made a mental note to avoid Sherlock for at least the next week.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	45. Chapter 45

My wife opened the door and caught me before I pitched forward and fell flat on my face. Doctor Watson helped steady me, and apologetically explained that I had been helping Sherlock with an experiment.

"As long as you aren't brining him home drunk." She decided. The Doctor blinked, and flushed. My wife's response was to laugh. "No, he doesn't make a habit of coming home drunk." She assured him. "But the last time he fell over like this on the front porch he had been swimming in the Thames and reeked of garlic and cloves."

My wife was too free with her stories about me, I decided as she and the Doctor helped me inside. I still could barely move, and I worried about how long this stiffness was going to last.

"Keep an eye on him." The Doctor was saying as they lowered me onto the couch. "He should be fine by tomorrow, but I think Holmes' concoction worked a little _too _well."

Lizzie frowned. "I don't much care for the thought of my husband being Mr. Holmes' guinea pig."

"And he usually isn't." Doctor Watson assured her quickly. "The situation, however-"

"Well, I'll watch him." My wife relaxed at the Doctor's words. "And rest assured you'll hear about it if he's not right as rain tomorrow."

"I would expect nothing less." Doctor Watson replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I must be going. Good evening, Inspector." He said to me.

"Goodbye." I managed to croak. My voice still wasn't working properly either.

"Good to see you again, Doctor Watson." Lizzie said, showing him out. When she returned it was with her hands on her hips. I cringed.

"An experiment?" She demanded.

I swallowed and tried to explain.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	46. Chapter 46

The entire Yard froze as I entered the building. I steadfastly ignored them, and slowly made my way to where Sherlock and the Doctor were standing with Gregson.

Gregson was staring at the cane I was using, as was Sherlock. If the Doctor was surprised, it was only at the fact that I was still using the thing.

I glared at Sherlock, and he decided to look at something else. Gregson merely grinned. "Back from the dead?" He quipped.

"Yes." I replied. I was in no mood to bandy words with the man. Then I realized the Doctor was looking worried. I sighed. "My balance is still a little off." I confessed. "Which you said was to be expected." His expression cleared somewhat at the reminder.

I raised the cane that I had been carrying more than actually using. I was still a bit slow, but I could walk just fine. "I lost my balance and fell down the stairs this morning." I clarified awkwardly. "My wife refused to let me out of the house without it."

"I thought only _gentlemen_ owned those." Was Gregson's mocking reply, and I felt my face grow warm. "You just happened to have one around the house?"

I was in a foul mood today. I let him have it. "I'm surprised someone as smart as you doesn't remember having seen it before." I retorted. "After all, I made frequent use of it for a considerable period of time after that smuggling incident."

He flinched, as if at a physical blow. Satisfied, I continued in a less wounding direction. "It was a Christmas present from my mother-in-law."

"A thoughtful gift." The Doctor mused.

I decided against disagreeing with him. "I suppose it was."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	47. Chapter 47

Author's note: I was watching a version of The Hound of the Baskerville's the other day, the version with Ian Hart as Watson, and his reaction at the end, while not in line with the book, captured my interest, so here we go.

* * *

"Doctor! I found her!" My first reaction was to go back through the door and shout for Doctor Watson. The Doctor, who had been ready to follow Holmes in his pursuit of the murderer, hesitated for less than a second before altering his direction.

I turned my attention back to the man's missing wife. I heard rather than saw the Doctor stop in the door, heard his quick intake of breath, and the uttered oath that followed.

"Help me get her down." I said, and the Doctor recovered. I heard a chair scrape across the floor, and I moved forward and braced the body as he stepped up and cut the rope that held her aloft.

The Doctor was by my side in an instant and helping me lay her down on the ground. It was a terrible sight to behold.

He had hanged her in their bedroom.

Not only that, but he had beaten her before he had done so. Bruises covered what we could see of her body, which was considerable as the woman was clothed only in a tattered and torn nightdress, and I could make out marks from where he had taken a whip to her as well. Her eyes were still open, pleading, I fancied.

"The foul-" The Doctor's exclamation was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. I was up in a flash. Sherlock didn't usually carry a gun, and I knew he was not today.

"Come, Doctor." I said, and headed for the door. He looked up at me, surprised, then back at the corpse.

"Shouldn't we-?"

"She's dead." I cut him off curtly. "And Mr. Holmes may soon be as well if we don't hurry." He hesitated still. "There is nothing you can do for her." I pointed out.

Anger sparked in his eyes, but he took off after Sherlock without further protest. I followed, suddenly aware that I had somehow angered the man.

We caught up with the man as he leveled a revolver at Sherlock's chest. Doctor Watson didn't blink but shot the gun right out of his hand. Then he stopped and took aim.

I slammed into the Doctor with all the force I could muster. It wasn't much, for Doctor Watson was hardly the gaunt figure he had been when we had first met, but it was enough to knock his aim wild.

I heard the grunt behind me as I stepped between the murderer and the Doctor's gun. "Don't do it." I said, trying for a calm I did not feel. Doctor Watson was one of the last people I would ever want to cross.

The Doctor glared at me; I heard the man behind me trying to move, and drew my own gun. I turned so that I could see them both. "I wouldn't move if I were you." I informed the murderer.

Doctor Watson was fairly trembling with rage. "He killed her." He reminded me. "His own wife. He beat her, and whipped her, how can you stand there and defend him?" He demanded.

"Because men beat their wives every day, Doctor. Because this sort of thing happens." I replied harshly. "Because my job does not include becoming judge and jury, nor would I want it to. Now put the gun away, or I will remove it from your possession myself."

He stared at me, and I wondered if I had managed to make an enemy of this man. Ever so slowly he returned his revolver to his pocket. He mechanically saw to Sherlock while I cuffed our man, and we headed back to the house.

The Doctor went to deal with the body of the dead woman; I was more than happy to let him.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	48. Chapter 48

"So?" Gregson was curious. "What happened?"

"We found the missing wife." I replied. "He beat her half to death, then hanged her."

Gregson shuddered. Then, as I knew he would, he looked thoughtful. "I suppose she was cheating on him."

"A bad cook, more likely." I wondered what was wrong with us that we coped with finding dead bodies by going through the list of excuses people gave for committing the murders.

"Terrible house-cleaner." Gregson offered.

"Quarrelsome?" I tried to remember if that had been an excuse.

"Wouldn't give birth to any sons, remember that one?"

"Ahem." We started, and looked up to find the Doctor glaring at us.

He had overheard us. There were some things you just didn't want people knowing; most of our coping methods fell under that list.

How did you explain that you found it easier to cope with one murder by remembering past murders that were related? How did you explain that sometimes you _were_ disrespectful of the dead, because to take it seriously was to accept that yes, there were people out there who would smother their daughters for not being sons and throw their bodies out with the garbage? How did you explain that you had enough nightmares to last anyone an eternity, and if you could avoid adding one more to that list, you would? How did you explain that you became hardened to this sort of thing out of necessity?

Too many in our line of work couldn't handle it. Too many cracked, too many let themselves dwell on the evil we face on a daily basis and eventually gave up.

He was a doctor, he should at least understand that you had to get used to some things in order to survive.

He too, had seen death. He had been a soldier, and a doctor. It was a wonder he wasn't more callous.

He was stronger than I, to face down death and pain and suffering and not allow himself to become insensitive to it.

"I'm sorry." I apologized. There wasn't any point in trying to explain. I don't suppose it really was excusable anyway. It wasn't something I was proud of. It was just another way to survive.

The Doctor was still angry as I checked to see who would be dealing with the body.

I swore.

"What?" Gregson was alarmed.

"Hopkins." I snapped, taking off. Behind me, Gregson swore as well.

"The boy doesn't need to see that." He said.

I could hear the Doctor's confusion as he asked, "Have you seen her?"

I didn't have to hear it to know what Gregson's reply would be. _No, but I don't have to. I've seen my share of wives murdered by their violent husbands. _

I heard the lad's startled oath as I reached the room, and found Hopkins, our newest Inspector, staring in horror at the body. This was not going to be pretty.

Hopkins had gone pale, and was starting to shake. He was still too new at this. I stepped into the room, and turned the lad away from the sight.

I led the shaking lad from the room. He was severely shaken by the sight. I let him collapse against the wall, and slump to the floor.

"Breathe, lad." I reminded him as I crouched in front of the new Inspector. He did, and stared up at me in horror.

"How-why-Sir?" He couldn't quite figure out what he was trying to ask. I waited while he slowly began to calm down.

"Just breathe, Hopkins."

He swallowed, and finally managed a question. "How could someone do something like that, Inspector?"

I sighed. "I don't know." I admitted. "I wonder the same thing myself." After another moment, I stood and offered him a hand up. "All right, now?"

"I-I think so." He took my hand. "I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have let it get to me."

I shook my head. "It gets to everyone, Hopkins. You weren't ready for that. You probably won't be ready for a lot of stuff when you first have to deal with it. You'll learn to deal with it."

"How?" He wanted to know. I shrugged.

"Everyone has their ways. Some people just get so hard it doesn't bother them anymore. Some people act like it doesn't while they're on the job, and go home and deal with it then. We all cope as well as we can, and it's not always pretty, or nice, but we do what we have to. If you can't find some way to cope, you get out."

"You mean quit." Hopkins said.

"Some people go that route." I replied. "I'll take care of this tonight, Hopkins."

"Are you sure?" He asked uncertainly. "I mean, I'm supposed to…"

"I'm sure. Go on."

"Thank you, sir." Hopkins looked relieved to be getting away from the place.

He nodded to someone behind me before he left. I turned, half expecting Gregson, and was surprised to see the Doctor standing there, an odd look upon his face.

I sighed. "What we do isn't pretty, Doctor. It isn't nice, and it isn't pleasant. I'm not proud of the fact that I can make light of murder, or laugh at a crime, but it's either that or let it get to me, and we lose enough men to suicide as it is. It's a horrible business, and you have every right to be appalled, but not everyone is strong enough to deal with death and despair every day and not be overwhelmed by it all."

There was a grudging concession to my words in his eyes. "Do you need any help?" He asked after a moment.

I certainly would not be opposed to the company. "If you don't mind." I replied.


	49. Chapter 49

I hesitated as a rather pretty young woman opened the door. "May I help you?" She asked.

I had never met the Doctor's wife; all I had to go on was Jones' experience with the woman in that dreadful Sholto case. I figured, however, that she would have to be an extraordinary woman to capture the Doctor's heart, and to gain Sherlock's grudging acceptance.

But I didn't really have time to be hesitant. "Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Watson, but is your husband home?"

The woman frowned. "He just got home from work." She replied cautiously. "I'm afraid he's rather exhausted."

I knew that the man worked hard, and that along with his practice he also did a considerable amount of charity work. I felt guilty coming here like this, but-

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Watson, but may I speak with him?"

She considered me for a moment. "Is someone injured?" She asked.

I managed to hide my impatience. "Yes, ma'am. Rest assured, I would not bother the Doctor if it were not urgent."

Doctor Watson appeared behind his wife in the doorway. "What is it, Lestrade?" He asked. His wife was right, the man was exhausted.

"Sorry to bother you, Doctor." I said quickly. "But one of the boys was knocked down trying to settle a brawl a couple blocks over, and I'm afraid it's serious."

The Doctor nodded. "I'll come right away." He assured me. "Come in while I put my shoes back on and get my bag."

He left me there in the hall with his wife.

"So you're Inspector Lestrade?" She asked.

I nodded, and wondered what I was in for. Descriptions of myself and Gregson from _A Study in Scarlet_ flashed into my mind, and I braced myself for an extremely uncomfortable few minutes.

"It's nice to finally meet you." She said. "My husband says you've been in on quite a few cases with him and Mr. Holmes."

I found myself shifting uncomfortably. "I have worked with Mr. Holmes and your husband on occasion." I agreed. I hoped the Doctor reappeared soon. "I am sorry to intrude on your evening, Mrs. Watson."

She smiled. "If a man's life is at stake, by all means, intrude." She said easily. "My husband would never forgive himself if he had the chance to save a life and did not."

The Doctor reappeared then, ready to go. "I'll be back later, Mary." He told his wife with a smile.

"I'll keep supper warm." She replied. "Nice to meet you, Inspector."

"Good evening, Mrs. Watson." I said, and led her husband out into the darkening streets. "I'm sorry to do this." I said. "But you were closest, and I'm not sure…" I let myself trail off.

Doctor Watson nodded. "By all means, Lestrade, if there is an emergency do not hesitate to request my assistance. I am glad to do what I can."

* * *

Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	50. Chapter 50

I was in the washroom when I heard the knock. "Get that before Jackie does, will you Giles?" My oldest had gotten in the habit recently of answering the door and inviting people in, and we were still trying to figure out a way to deal with it other than telling him that the person on the other side of the door could be anyone from his grandmother to that serial killer whose case I had recently been assigned to and that consequently we would prefer that he let one of us answer it, just in case.

I reached the door first. "Aww, man!" Jackie protested before demanding, "When did you get home?" and taking off back up the stairs. I shook my head and turned my attention back to the door.

I opened it and let Doctor Watson into my home for the third time. His wife smiled as I welcomed them both in. "Doctor, Mrs. Watson." I wondered if I could get them into the sitting room before my oldest daughter realized the Doctor was here.

I heard the thump of something being thrown down and guessed that the answer was no. "Dinner isn't quite ready yet, I'm afraid. The sitting room is this way." I gestured, the Watsons headed toward the sitting room while I moved to get between them and the stairs.

Amy hit the bottom of the stairs and promptly plowed into me. "Oof!" She cried as I caught her before she tumbled backwards. "Da!" She shrieked. "You're home!" She began bouncing in my arms, trying her best to get me to drop her on her head, and shouted up the stairs. "Da's home! Da's home!"

The Doctor was trying valiantly not to laugh as another set of feet could be heard upstairs. His wife was smiling, apparently enjoying the spectacle as another of my children showed up and tried to knock me over.

"Aren't you getting a bit big for this?" I asked as I Olivia tried to scramble up into my other arm.

"No." She informed me solemnly. "Jackie is, but not me. I'm the baby."

Jackie had reappeared. "Why don't you like us to jump on you when people are here, Da?" He wanted to know. "Hi, Doctor."

"Hello, Jackie." The Doctor replied cheerily. Amy decided she was tired of me and scrambled down.

"Hello, Dr. Watson." She said primly.

"Hello." He looked her over. "You seem to have grown up a bit since the last time I saw you, young lady."

Amy beamed at him. "I'm six." She said proudly.

Olivia was content to stay on my hip, but not to be left out. "I'm four." She put in. "Four years old. And I can count to four. One, two, three, four. See?"

Amy shot an annoyed glance at her sister for interrupting. "Who is that?" She asked, pointing at the Doctor's wife.

"Don't point, Amy." I reminded my daughter. She blushed.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." Mrs. Watson assured her. "Sometimes we just forget, don't we?" Amy nodded. "I'm Mrs. Watson. Doctor Watson's wife."

"Oh." Amy replied. "Nice to meet you. I'm Amy. Inspector Lestrade's daughter."

Mrs. Watson somehow managed not to laugh. "Nice to meet you, Amy. Is this your brother and sister?"

Amy nodded. "That's Jackie. He's nine. And that's Olivia."

"I'm four." Olivia piped up.

There was an urgent knock at the door, and Jackie had darted for it and opened it before I could do anything. I watched helplessly as he pulled the door open and his eyes went wide with terror.

"Aaaah!" He shouted, and bolted towards the kitchen where his mother was.

"Go help your ma." I told Amy and Olivia. The two girls didn't argue. Then I turned to the man standing in the door way. "Are you hurt?" I demanded.

Hopkins shook his head. "It's not my blood, Inspector." He said wearily. "It's Bradstreet's. Someone just tried to kill him."

The Doctor was instantly involved. "How bad is it?"

Hopkins swallowed. "Pretty bad. He was bleeding all over the place. Somebody stabbed him." He clarified.

I stifled a sigh and turned to Doctor Watson. "I'm sorry, Doctor, Mrs. Watson, but-"

The Doctor raised a hand to interrupt. "Quite understandable, Lestrade. Do let me know if you need anything."

Hopkins hesitated. "Actually…" He shot a concerned look at the Doctor's wife, who smiled reassuringly.

"Go on, both of you." That was my wife. Who knew how long Lizzie had been standing there. "We'll be perfectly alright without you."

Mrs. Watson nodded in agreement.

"I'll keep dinner warm. For both of you." Lizzie added.

Doctor Watson looked at his wife. "Thank you." He said, then he turned to Hopkins. "My medical bag will be at Baker Street."

"We'll send someone for it." Hopkins assured him.

* * *

Disclaimer:Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	51. Chapter 51

Bradstreet would be all right, Doctor Watson assured me as we returned wearily to my home. I opened the front door and followed as the Doctor stepped inside. We both stopped short at the sound that met our ears.

My wife had a sense of humor, and I had heard her laugh before, but this was not like her in the slightest. My wife was _giggling_. Hysterically. And she wasn't the only one either, by the sound of it.

The sound of two females giggling was enough to set off warning alarms in my head. Growing up, it had never meant anything good for me to enter a room and find my sister giggling with any of her friends. In fact, the sound had become the surest sign that I should stay far, far away for the duration of said friend's visit.

Of course, that was then, and this was now. My wife would already have realized I was home, and would expect me to wash up and make my way to the kitchen, no matter how madly she and Mrs. Watson were giggling in there.

There was no help for it. I would simply have to face the dangers of a hysterical wife who had been into who knew what sort of mischief during my absence. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and took a step forward.

The Doctor shot me an incredulous look. "You aren't going in there, are you?" He demanded, disbelief etched into his features. The man was no stranger, then, to the dangers of a giggling female.

I shrugged, trying not to let my anxiety show. "I have to. My wife heard the door open, and knows I'm home. She'll be expecting me in the kitchen. You too." I added, after a moment.

The Doctor grimaced. Then he steeled himself, as if for battle, and we made our way first to the washroom to make ourselves presentable, then to the kitchen.

It was worse than I had initially feared. The women were seated at the table, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls, and Mrs. Watson looked up at our arrival. "Oh, John! We were just talking about you two!" The woman said brightly before the two of them dissolved into giggles once more.

At least the Doctor had enough sense not to ask what they had been saying, and we settled at the table in mutual discomfort and embarrassment, for if our wives were talking about us, rest assured, there would be _some_ embarrassing information disclosed, and wordlessly started on the dinner that had been kept warm for us.

"How is Bradstreet?" My wife had regained some semblance of sanity, then. Enough to ask about the Inspector.

"He'll live." I replied warily. The problem with women was that if you got them together, even the sanest of them could be stricken with silliness, and then _nothing_ was sacred. Chances were Mrs. Watson was now aware of my more major faults, the fact that I had been late for my own wedding, and the details of that embarrassing incident last November, though to be fair, my own wife had probably gained a few less than sterling stories on the Doctor in return.

Doctor Watson and I exchanged a glance as we ate, which set the women off into hysterical giggles once more. I couldn't stop the groan that made its way past my lips, for something truly terrible had happened here tonight. I was certain of it.

I was equally certain that I did not want to know what, and that I would mercifully never find out.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	52. Chapter 52

I looked up at the Doctor, trying to recall just how many times I had seen him looking so nervous, and trying to figure out just what could have caused it. But he was here to see me, apparently, so chances were I would shortly find out.

"Have a seat, Doctor." I offered. He took it, and settled on the edge, as if ready to spring from it at a moment's notice. "Mr. Holmes did not send you?"

He started, then shook his head. "No. No, he did not." He offered me a fake smile, and fidgeted. I wondered just what the problem was.

"How may I help you?" I asked, uncertainly.

He swallowed. "Well, I, that is, I've been writing again."

"Another of Mr. Holmes' cases?" I inquired politely. I knew he had often written up the cases, and had even published a few, not that I had actually read any of them since that first _A Study in Scarlet_. But I also knew that we had been seeing less of the Doctor during our work with Sherlock since the man had gotten married.

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Yes, actually. You might remember it. That business out in Boscombe Valley."

I managed not to wince. That meant it had been published. The Doctor wrote up his cases right away, and would consequently not be just getting around to it. "I remember." I said. "Has it been well received so far?"

He nodded uncertainly. "Have you, um…"

He was trying to ask if I had seen it yet. "No." I assured him. "I've been a bit busy, and haven't had much time to read anything other than reports." He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. "I'll look into it if I get a chance." I offered, and he gave me a weak smile.

Of course Gregson would choose that moment to pop in and throw a paper at me. He was so pleased with himself, I don't think he even noticed the Doctor sitting there.

Nor did he notice how Doctor Watson went rigid as he recognized _The Strand. _

"You're famous." He declared, grinning. The Doctor was now trying to disappear in his seat. "_Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade_." He quoted. "_You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding."_

"Don't you have anything better to do?" I asked as I obligingly looked for the piece. I knew full well that Gregson was not going to go away until I he had finished both informing me of and ribbing about this latest work of the Doctor's. "That was Mr. Holmes, I'd wager."

"Who else?" Gregson wanted to know. He waited impatiently for me to work my way through the first couple of paragraphs. Then he snatched it from me. "Here. I'll be here all day if I wait for you to get through it."

I rolled my eyes while he searched for what he wanted. "_A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform_." Gregson chortled. "He makes you sound like some sort of villain."

"_'I have said all I have to say,' said Gregson, in an offended voice." _I quoted, and the other Inspector huffily went back to his paper.

"_'We have got to the deductions and the inferences,' said Lestrade, winking at me._ Did you actually wink at Dr. Watson? People will get the idea that you like him. _'I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies'_

_"_'_You are right,' said Holmes demurely; 'you do find it very hard to tackle the facts.'_

_'Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of,' replied Lestrade with some warmth."_

I sighed. "Can you skip to the part where Mr. Holmes makes a fool out of me and I'm astonished and amazed so I can get back to work?" I asked.

He scowled at me; I was ruining his fun. The Doctor, on the other hand, looked ready to pass out from nerves.

Gregson found his place. "_Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. 'I am a practical man,' he said, 'and really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.'"_

I barely stifled a groan. "I remember this conversation; I was there. Is that the best you can do?" I asked. "Now get out. I'm busy." When Gregson started to open his mouth anyway, I grinned. "And my favorite line is still _Gregson looked quite crestfallen._"

The man glared at me. Then he threw the paper on my desk. "Fine." He grumbled. "I'm leaving." And finally headed for the door. He paused in the doorway, and looked back at me. "By the way, your foot made it into the story as well." He added before he left.

I looked back over at the Doctor, who looked as if he were considering running for cover. Then I picked up the paper. "Do you mind?" I asked. "Don't tell Gregson, but I'm curious now."

He nodded tersely, and sat there in silence while I read through the story from start to finish. When I had finally made it through and set the paper down, I looked over at the Doctor.

He didn't say a word, but I could see he was waiting for me to say something. I remained silent for a moment, considering what exactly I wanted to say.

"Well that explains why Hopkins and Bradstreet have been trying not to stare at my feet all week." I said, folding up the paper. "And frankly, I have more important things to worry about than where the window in your bedroom is in relation to your mirror."

Doctor Watson let out a breath. "Then you aren't, er…Mary thought you might, that is, she said she didn't think I was being very kind to you."

I laughed. "Any account that involves Mr. Holmes and myself on a case is invariably going to end up with me looking the fool, Doctor, until I learn to stop arguing with him."

He wasn't very reassured. "But, I mean, _ferret like_?_ Furtive_?_ Sly-looking_?" I wondered how much it had cost him to bring those up when I had not.

"How about _rat-faced_?" I offered, and the Doctor flinched. "That's nothing compared to the insults I get from reporters, or what I was called yesterday by a drunk woman right before she tried to knife me; I'd arrested her thieving husband a few days ago." I shrugged. "You paint a better picture of the Yard in your stories than a lot of papers do, from what I hear, so I'm not about to complain."

_Now_ he looked relieved, but he really needn't have bothered. The Doctor was a writer, and wrote what he saw. There was no malice behind it; a little hero worship where Sherlock was concerned, certainly, but no harm was intended. As such, there was no since in getting worked up over something as trivial as an unflattering description.

Not that that meant I'd let Gregson get away with his ribbing. That man could make anything sound like an insult, and I certainly wasn't about to sit there and let him enjoy himself _too_ much.

"One thing, Doctor." I said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He leaned forward as well, looking a bit nervous. "That incident with the baker? The one that almost ended in a wedding? Promise me that one will never make it into print."

The Doctor shuddered. "You have my word." He agreed fervently. Then he did smile, a real smile. "I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Inspector." He said, standing.

I stood as well. "Shall I see you out?" I offered. I really just wanted to see Gregson's face when he realized who else had been in my office when he had burst in.

A twinkle in the Doctor's eyes revealed he was thinking along the same lines. "Thank you." He accepted my offer, and we stepped out into the hall.

Gregson looked up as we passed his office; out of the corner of my eye I saw his jaw drop and his face turn white as a sheet. To make things even better, Doctor Watson nodded pleasantly to him as we passed.

I saw Bradstreet paying Hopkins as we entered the front room; I guessed that they had been betting on how I would react after Gregson presented me with the story. Then, of course, their gaze drifted to my feet.

I fought back the urge to roll my eyes as I said goodbye to the Doctor. Then I made my way over to the two Inspectors.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	53. Chapter 53

I eyed Gregson. "Just what are you suggesting?" I asked. I was in no mood to try to decipher the cryptic comments he'd been throwing my way.

Gregson rolled his eyes. "You like him." He accused. "He makes us look like incompetent fools down here, and you _like_ the man. You miss seeing him around all the time, don't you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes is easier to work with when the Doctor's along. You know that."

"Next thing you're going to be telling me it's reassuring to have someone with his medical abilities about." Gregson replied.

"It is."

"He called you _rat-faced._ And _ferret-like._ His stories portray you as a less than savory looking character, not to mention less than intelligent."

I rolled _my_ eyes. "And that crazy church organist accused me of being the spawn of Satan last night. What's your point?"

"He's stopping by today." Gregson said. Then he snorted. "See, you actually _brightened. _You're looking forward to seeing him."

I scowled. "_He_ doesn't try to annoy me to death when I work with him." I snapped. "Nor does he insult me."

"Lestrade, you're as friendly with him as if he were a fellow Yarder." Gregson insisted, his tone patronizing.

I glared at the man. "What's your point, Gregson?"

Gregson just looked at me. "That you're fond of the Doctor."

"I respect him." I retorted. "He's a good man."

"You _like_ him."

"Shut up." I was tired of this conversation.

"Why is it so hard for you to admit you like someone?" He wanted to know.

"Get out." I said, instead of answering his question. "Now. Because I'll tell you this, _Inspector_. Whoever I may like or not like or be fond of or whatever other nonsense you insist on entertaining, one thing is certain."

"What's that?" Gregson asked obligingly, the smirk already threatening to emerge.

"I _don't _like you!" I said it with more force than was strictly necessary. Gregson simply grinned at me and ducked through the door before I could consider throwing something at him.

Not that I had anything to throw. Pity. I would have to remedy that. Gregson was possibly the only person on this earth that I actually wouldn't have a problem acting out such fantasies of violence on.

It was probably better this way. I looked up at the now empty doorway-

Except it wasn't empty. Doctor Watson was standing in it, looking perplexed and amused and-

_Good heavens. _He had overheard us. _Wonderful._ I forced a smile. "Doctor, do come in." I hoped I didn't sound as uncomfortable as I felt. "Have a seat."

"Thank you." The Doctor sat down, a bit awkwardly.

"What brings you down here?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't ask. "Are you working on a case with Mr. Holmes?"

"No." He said, and shook his head. "Actually, I just came down to see how Jones was doing. I patched him up the other day, and hadn't heard anything."

"He's alright, though?" I asked.

"Oh, he's just fine." Watson was relaxing now. Bless him; he apparently wasn't going to ask why Gregson and I had been talking about him. "But I was down here, and thought I'd say hello, if you aren't busy."

"There's busy and then there's busy." I admitted. "But it was nice of you to stop by." There were, after all, worse people to have occupying your office.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	54. Chapter 54

I glanced over out of the corner of my eye as the door swung open and Doctor Watson stepped inside. I couldn't do much more than that, as my momentary distraction allowed the arm that had been trying to strangle me to finally succeed in restricting my airflow.

The Doctor cut a wide path around us and took a seat in the armchair. "Holmes. Inspector." He acknowledged us.

"Good to see you, Watson." Sherlock replied as he increased the pressure to my throat. Now I really couldn't breathe. "You're looking well."

"You don't look like you've been eating enough." The Doctor replied. "That's really not the best way to strangle someone, you know."

Behind me, I felt Sherlock almost shrug. "It was what we were given to work with."

I wondered if the man planned on letting me go anytime soon. My lungs were starting to protest to the lack of air. I tapped the amateur detective on the arm, twice.

And gasped as he let me go. I swallowed. "Thank you." I said, massaging my throat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Now, Inspector, if you hadn't allowed yourself to be distracted when Watson came in, you would have been fine."

"And if I hadn't tapped you on the arm, you would have forgotten you were strangling me while you stood there and talked to Doctor Watson." I pointed out. I hadn't been the only one distracted by the Doctor's arrival.

The Doctor chuckled at that, and soon Sherlock was explaining to him the details of the case that was the reason for what he had just witnessed.

I bid them good day and left them at it. I had other things to do than stand around being strangled all day.

* * *

Diclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	55. Chapter 55

"Lestrade!" I was up and out into the hall in a flash. I hadn't even known that Hopkins was capable of being that loud.

A chill ran down my spine as I joined the group of Inspectors that were gathered around Hopkins. They all wore grim, solemn expressions. I stopped, and waited.

Nobody spoke.

"What is it, Hopkins?" I demanded impatiently.

He swallowed. Then he said something that made my heart stop.

"Holmes is dead."

Was that even possible? Sherlock Holmes, of all people, dead? He was younger than I; I guess I had always assumed that he would still be around making Scotland Yard look ridiculous long after I was gone from the scene.

Sherlock Holmes. Dead.

His work was every bit as dangerous as ours, likely more so. We at least had the added safety of numbers. With Sherlock it was just him, or him and the Doctor, if he was lucky.

Doctor Watson. He'd been with Sherlock. What about him?

I managed to start breathing again, and focused on Hopkins once more. He had apparently gotten the same reaction from the others around us, and had been waiting for me to recover before he continued.

"Moriarty caught up with him at Reichenbach falls." Hopkins explained. "They fought, and both fell to their deaths."

I forced myself to say it. "The Doctor was with him."

Hopkins nodded. I suddenly realized how blank his eyes were. He had thought very highly of Sherlock, had even looked up to the man. "Doctor Watson is safe and on his way home. The train arrives tonight."

It was Bradstreet who said it. "Someone should be there. Holmes- his death will have hit the Doctor hard."

Eyes drifted to me. Why me?

I didn't protest, though. It was the least I could do for both of the men, to meet the Doctor and make sure he made it home to his wife.

I took a deep breath, and nodded. "What time is the train scheduled to arrive?" I asked.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	56. Chapter 56

The pouring rain might have bothered me. The fact that I was completely soaked should have. I would never have noticed the chill if it hadn't been for the fact that I could see my breath; personally I felt numb.

I halfway expected it to be another elaborate hoax or disguise or trick of Sherlock's. My mind certainly did not want to accept that he was dead.

And as long as the train hadn't yet pulled in, until Doctor Watson stepped off alone, I could still entertain that slight disbelief, and I could remain numb. I wasn't sure what would happen when I could no longer doubt.

I wasn't sure why this was affecting me so much.

I had seen innocents, colleagues, and the guilty die. I had watched men breathe their last, had found women covered in blood, had seen horrors that had made even hardened criminals green and not so much as blinked. I was familiar with death, and had grown accustomed to its presence.

But this was different, somehow. And I had no idea why.

The train rolled in. People began to get off, and the station, which had been empty and still only moments before, was now a jumble of bodies and chaos as people hurried to get out of the rain.

I almost didn't see him.

I would not have, had my attention not been drawn to the still, solitary figure who had stepped down from the train, taken a few more steps away from it, and stopped. The crowd merely swept around and past him, oblivious.

It was true, then, and I could no longer even pretend to hope otherwise. I felt cold, and unsteady, my throat tightened as I stared at that lone, solitary figure.

I shook my head and stepped forward into the crowd.

They moved out of my way almost instinctively; I had been told on more than one occasion that an Inspector in pursuit could be spotted from a mile away, and that anybody with the slightest bit of brains knew to get clear. I didn't know how true it was, having come from one of the bartenders in the rougher parts of the city, but tonight I was grateful that I didn't have to fight my way through.

The Doctor's eyes were vacant. He looked lost, as if he didn't know what to do next or where to go from here. He also looked as if he had lost a brother.

I wasn't surprised; the two men had certainly been close, in their own odd little way. When the two hadn't immediately driven each other off something rare and unique had been forged, something others catch a glimps of on occasion but could never fully understand.

"Doctor?" I said after a second, and the man before me started. His eyes gradually focused, slowly rested on me, but didn't quite meet mine.

"Inspector?" His voice was puzzled, but his expression was still a bit lost. "Is there something the matter?" He asked, and his voice cracked on the last word.

Of course something was the matter. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Gone. Forever. But he didn't need me to remind him of what he hadn't forgotten.

"The train was late." I complained instead. "I should have known, though. They usually are."

"You should have brought an umbrella." The Doctor suggested half-heartedly, as we started across the platform.

He stopped though, when we reached a bench, and sank into it, unheeding of the wet or the rain that was pouring down on the two of us.

I sat down beside him. Silence settled between us, a tension that crackled and threatened to break both of us wide open if something wasn't done.

"I'm sorry." I said at last. That didn't cover it, not by a long shot, but I still didn't know _what _I was feeling, and it was the best I could do.

Beside me, the Doctor sighed. "I left him there, at the Falls." He murmured, so softly I almost didn't hear. "And he let me go."

"He wanted to be sure you were safe." I offered.

"I should have realized it was a trick." He replied bitterly.

I didn't know just what happened. "What could you have done?" I asked all the same, and hoped I wasn't doing more harm than good.

He shrugged helplessly. "Something." He finally said. "I don't know. I should have been there."

I sighed. "Doctor, everyone at the Yard knows you would have followed Mr. Holmes to the ends of the earth and even farther. Everyone knows you'd do whatever was necessary to protect him. Nobody who knows you would think you were incapable of handling yourself in the face of danger.

"You've saved Mr. Holmes' life on a number of occasions, not to mention the lives of more than a few of us down at the Yard. You've face your share of danger, and violence, and desperate men.

"But this Moriarty character, he was another thing altogether. He was the _one_ man in England, possibly in the world, who could match Mr. Holmes for cunning, or wit, or intelligence. Moriarty was dangerous, even to Mr. Holmes.

"And Holmes took him down, Doctor, at the cost of his own life. And if the price _Mr. Holmes_ had to pay to stop Moriarty was his life, what the devil kind of chance do you think ordinary people like you or me would have had to stop him? Don't be daft, Doctor."

"Besides," I added, when it seemed that the man wasn't listening, "Mr. Holmes would never have forgiven himself if he had let you stay and something had happened to you."

Again it was silent, except for the sound of the rain. Eventually the man took a deep breath.

"I suppose you're right." He said at last, reluctantly.

"That doesn't make it any easier." I knew that much. He turned, and met my eyes. His were red-rimmed and as watery as his stories had once claimed mine were.

"No, it doesn't." He agreed, but he offered me a small, shaky smile. "Why are you here, Lestrade?"

I put on a scowl. "Bradstreet got the bright idea that someone should make sure you made it safely home." I grumbled as we stood. "I lost, so here I am."

He almost chuckled at that. "I had no idea I meant that much to the man." He joked wearily. We started for the street.

"Don't be daft." I said again. "Bradstreet's still alive because of you. So is Hopkins, for that matter. And Jones, Gregson, more Constables than I can count…" I trailed off, hoping he got the point.

"And yet _you_ were the one that had to come." The Doctor countered absently.

I shrugged. "I don't have to remind you of the times you saved _my_ life; we were both there for most of them."

An eyebrow went up. "Someone's going to think you care, Lestrade." He warned me, his tone a bit lighter than it had been.

I shuddered. "So long as it isn't Gregson." I replied.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	57. Chapter 57

I knocked on the door, hoping it was the right place, hoping they hadn't moved or something. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen the man, or even if I had since that rainy night a year ago. Surely it hadn't been that long…

I caught Constable Smith as he finally collapsed, and positioned him so he was mostly upright. Again, I hoped this was still the right place.

It was; the Doctor himself opened the door. "Sorry to trouble you." I said as he quickly took in the man I was supporting and stepped forward to help me drag him in.

"Not at all." He assured me. "We'll put him on the couch in the sitting room." He directed. "What happened?'

I shook my head. "I'm not really sure. We were making an arrest and suddenly he swayed and I thought he was going to faint on me. He collapsed on the step just now."

I stood back while he examined the other man. "Did your man get away?" He asked conversationally. "Have a seat, Inspector."

I took one of the chairs by the fire. "I left him handcuffed to a lamppost and sent the first Constable I came across after him." I replied. Then I was silent, not wishing to distract the Doctor from his work.

"John, is everything alright?" Mrs. Watson asked as she entered the room. "Good afternoon, Inspector. You aren't injured?"

"No, Ma'am." I replied. There was something different about the woman, though I had admittedly not seen her for a considerable amount of time…

"Has he been near the docks lately?" The Doctor asked.

"He was down there just last night, I believe. Why?"

"He's picked it up from someone down there, then." The Doctor answered. "It's been going around. Nothing too serious, though. He just needs rest, plenty of liquids, and he'll be fine."

"I'll send him home, then." I said.

"And watch yourself." The Doctor added. "If you've been in close contact with him, you could come down with it too. If you start to feel dizzy, or feverish, go home and go to bed. I don't want to hear that you've collapsed in the middle of investigating a murder scene because you didn't listen to me, understood?"

I nodded, and hoped I didn't end up needing to ignore his advice later. "Thank you, Doctor." I said.

"It's nothing, Inspector." He assured me with a smile.

I looked back over at his wife. I was almost certain…

The woman laughed, and Doctor Watson went to her side. "We're going to have a baby." He said, confirming my suspicions.

"Congratulations." I told them both. "Lizzie would insist that you let us know if you need anything." I added.

Mrs. Watson smiled, and her husband nodded. "Thank you." He said warmly.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	58. Chapter 58

Author's note: And here, strangely enough, is where this collection comes to an end. Somehow what started as a few little scenes written for fun has developed into a fifty-eight chapter story that isn't just a study on Watson, or about his relationship with Holmes, but about a relationship that seems to be slowly developing between Watson and the Inspector. I didn't plan it this way, just as I didn't originally intend for this to lead so well into the stories dealing with Watson's joining Scotland Yard as a Police Surgeon. But it's been fun, and educational, and this just seemed the proper place to stop.

Thanks for reading, and reviewing, and coming back for more.

* * *

I hit the floor, hard, and lay blinking in the light. "What?" I asked; I knew I was home, just as I knew my wife was the only person on earth who would shove me out of bed if I didn't wake up quickly enough.

"Gregson is here. He says it's important." Lizzie informed me, her eyes worried.

"It's always important." I rolled over onto my stomach so I could push myself up off the ground. "How long was I asleep?"

"Two hours." I groaned.

At least I hadn't bothered to change last night. For once in my life I didn't care that I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing the previous day. I didn't even care that Gregson would certainly have something to say about it. I was too tired.

Gregson didn't say anything about the fact that I was wearing a shirt that sported both bloodstains and a tear in the arm, and I was far too tired to recognize the expression on his face.

"Come on." Was the only thing he said.

"What?" I asked as I lurched after him.

"You haven't heard?"

"What?" I repeated myself blearily.

"You haven't heard."

I managed a half-hearted growl. "I've been busy." I reminded him. "I haven't heard anything these past three days. I haven't slept either." I added.

"You know about the epidemic that's been going around." Gregson ventured as I tried to figure out where we were going.

"Yes."

"Watson's wife caught it. The son too."

I stopped in my tracks, my exhausted brain trying desperately to come to a conclusion that should have been obvious. For once, Gregson didn't comment on my slowness.

"Where are we going?" I finally asked. I knew I wasn't going to like what I heard.

I was right.

"To the funeral." Gregson said grimly.

"The wife or the son?" I asked, when I had recovered.

"Both."

"Mercy…" I breathed.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


End file.
